AT LOS ANGELES

THE GIFT OF

MAY TREAT MORRISON

IN MEMORY OF

ALEXANDER F MORRISON

WASHINGTON IRVING

cBRACEBRIDGE
HALL

By WASHINGTON JRVING

R. F. FENNO & COMPANY: PUB-
LISHERS : 9 & ii E. SIXTEENTH
STREET : NEW YORK CITY : 1900

P5
£057

A i

BRACEBRIDGE HALL; OR, THE HUMOURISTS.

CONTENTS.

VOLUME ONE. PAQB

THE HALL 10

THE BUSY MAN 12

FAMILY SERVANTS 16

THE WIDOW 21

THE LOVERS 24

FAMILY RELKJUES 28

A.N OLD SOLDIER 30

THE WIDOW'S RETINUE . . 33

READY-MONEY JACK 86

BACHELORS 40

WIVES 43

STORY-TELLING 47

STOUT GENTLEMAN 48

FOREST TREES 57

LITERARY ANTIQUARY 61

THE FARM-HOUSE 66

HORSEMANSHIP 69

LOVE SYMPTOMS 72

FALCONRY 74

HAWKING . 78

SAINT MARK'S EVE 83

GENTILITY 89

FORTUNE-TELLING 93

LOVE-CHARMS 96

THE LIBRARY 99

STUDENT OF SALAMANCA 101

VOLUME TWO.

ENGLISH COUNTRY GSNTLKHEN 168

BACHELOR'S CONFESSIONS 169

ENGLISH GRAVITY 172

GYPSIES 176

MAY-DAY CUSTOMS 180

430076

4 CONTENTS.

VILLAGE WORTHMS 188

THE SCHOOLMASTER 186

THE SCHOOL 189

VILLAGE POLITICIAH 198

THE ROOKEKY 196

MAY-DAY 301

THE MANUSCRIPT 208

ANNETTE DELARBBB 210

TRAVELLING 2S8

THE CULPRIT 240

FAMILY MISFORTUNES 245

LOVER'S TROUBLES . . . , 248

THE HISTORIAN 252

THE HAUNTED HOUSE 254

DOLPH HEYLIGER 2.7T

THE STORM-SHIP 288

THK WEDDING 811

TH* AUTHOR'S FAREWELL..... aid

BRACEBRIDGE HALL;

OK,

THE HUMOURISTS

A MEDLEY.

BY GEOFFEEY CRAYON, GEN-L

Uuder this cloud I walk, Gentlemen ; pardon my rude assault. I am a traveller,
who, having surveyed most of the terrestrial angles of this globe, am hither ar-
rived, to peruse this little spot.— CHRISTMAS ORDINARY.

THE AUTHOR.

WORTHY READER!

ON again taking pen in hand, I would fain make a few ob-
servations at the outset, by way of bespeaking a right under-
standing. The volumes which I have already published have
met with a reception far beyond my most sanguine expectations.
I would willingly attribute this to their intrinsic merits ; but, in
spite of the vanity of authorship, I cannot but be sensible that
then* success has, in a great measure, been owing to a less nat-
tering cause. It has been a matter of marvel, to my European
readers, that a man from the wilds of America should express
himself in tolerable English. I was looked upon as something
new and strange in literature ; a kind of demi-savage, with a
feather in his hand, instead of on his head ; and there was a
curiosity to hear what such a being had to say about civilized
society.

This novelty is now at an end, and of course the feeling of
indulgence which it produced. I must now expect to bear the
scrutiny of sterner criticism, and to be measured by the same

Q BRACEBEIDGE HALL.

standard with contemporary, writers ; and the very favor which
has beeii ^xbwn to.noyip'Hvipus writings, will cause these to be
treated with the greater' rigour ; as there is nothing for which
the .^o^'fe'apt to^iiniAAnaap more severely, than for having
been over-praised. ' Off this hdad, therefore, I wish to forestall
the censoriousness of the reader; and I entreat he will not
think the worse of me for the many injudicious things that may
have been said in my commendation.

I am aware that I often travel over beaten ground, and treat
of subjects that have already been discussed by abler pens.
Indeed, various authors have been mentioned as my models, to
whom I should feel nattered if I thought I bore the slightest
resemblance; but in truth I write after no model that I am
conscious of, and I write with no idea of imitation or competi-
tion. In venturing occasionally on topics that have already
been almost exhausted by English authors, I do it, not with the
presumption of challenging a comparison, but with the hope
that some new interest may be given to such topics, when dis-
cussed by the pen of a stranger.

If, therefore, I should sometimes be found dwelling with
fondness on subjects that are trite and commonplace with the
reader, I beg that the circumstances under which I write may
be kept in recollection. Having been born and brought up in a
new country, yet educated from infancy in the literature of an
old one, my mind was early filled with historical and poetical
associations, connected with places, and manners, and customs
of Europe ; but which could rarely be applied to those of my
own country. To a mind thus peculiarly prepared, the most
ordinary objects and scenes, on arriving in Europe, are full of
strange matter and interesting novelty. England is as classic
ground to an American as Italy is to an Englishman ; and old
London teems with as much historical association as mighty
Rome.

Indeed, it is difficult to describe the whimsical medley of
ideas that throng upon his mind, on landing among English
scenes. He, for the first time, sees a world about which he has
been reading and thinking in every stage of his existence. The
recollected ideas of inf ancy , youth, and manhood ; of the nursery,
the school, and the study, come swarming at once upon him ;
and his attention is distracted between great and little objects ;
each of which, perhaps, awakens an equally delightful train of
remembrances.

But what more especially attracts his notice, are those pecu-

THE AUTHOR. 7

liarities which distinguish an old country and an old state of
society from a new one. I have never yet grown familiar
enough with the crumbling monuments of past ages, to blunt
the intense interest with which I at first beheld them. Accus-
tomed always to scenes where history was, in a manner, in
anticipation ; where every thing in art was new and progressive,
and pointed to the future rather than to the past ; where, in
short, the works of man gave no ideas but those of young exis-
tence, and prospective improvement; there was something
inexpressibly touching in the sight of enormous piles of archi-
tecture, gray with antiquity, and sinking into decay. I cannot
describe the mute but deep-felt enthusiasm with which I have
contemplated a vast monastic ruin, like Tintern Abbey, buried
in the bosom of a quiet valley, and shut up from the world, as
though it had existed merely for itself ; or a warrior pile, like
Con way Castle, standing in stern loneliness on its rocky height,
a mere hollow yet threatening phantom of departed power.
They spread a grand, and melancholy, and, to me, an unusual
charm over the landscape ; I, for the first time, beheld signs of
national old age, and empire's decay, and proofs of the tran-
sient and perishing glories of art, amidst the ever-springing and
reviving fertility of nature.

But, in fact, to me every thing was full of matter ; the foot-
steps of history were every where to be traced ; and poetry had
breathed over and sanctified the land. I experienced the de-
lightful freshness of feeling of a child, to whom every thing is
new. I pictured to myself a set of inhabitants and a mode of
life for every habitation that I saw, from the aristocratical
mansion, amidst the lordly repose of stately groves and solitary
parts, to the straw-thatched cottage, with its scanty garden
and its cherished woodbine. I thought I never could be sated
with the sweetness and freshness of a country so completely
carpeted with verdure; where every air breathed of the balmy
pasture, and the honey-suckled hedge. I was continually
coming upon some little document of poetry, in the blossomed
hawthorn, the daisy, the cowslip, the primrose, or some other
simple object that has received a supernatural value from the
muse. The first time that I heard the song of the nightingale,
I was intoxicated more by the delicious crowd of remembered
associations than by the melody of its notes ; and I shall never
forget the thrill of ecstasy with which I first saw the lark rise,
almost from beneath my feet, and wing its musical flight up
into the morning sky.

g BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

In this way I traversed England, a grown-up child, delighted
by every object, great and small; and betraying a wondering
ignorance, and simple enjoyment, that provoked many a stare
and a smile from my wiser and more experienced fellow-tra-
vellers. Such too was the odd confusion of associations that
kept breaking upon me, as I first approached London. One of
my earliest wishes had been to see this great metropolis. I had
read so much about it in the earliest books that had been put
into my infant hands; and I had heard so much about it from
those around me who had come from the " old countries."
was familiar with the names of its streets, and squares, and
public places, before I knew those of my native city. It was,
to me, the great centre of the world, round which every thing
seemed to revolve. I recollect contemplating so wistfully, when
a boy, a paltry little print of the Thames, and London Bridge,
and St. Paul's, that was in front of an old magazine; and a pic-
ture of Kensington Gardens, with gentlemen in three-cornered
hats and broad skirts, and ladies in hoops and lappets, that
hung up in my bed-room; even the venerable cut of St.
John's Gate, that has stood, tune out of mind, in front of the
Gentleman's Magazine, was not without its charms to me ; and
I envied the odd-looking little men that appeared to be loitering
about its arches.

How then did my heart warm when the towers of West-
minster Abbey were pointed out to me, rising above the rich
groves of St. James's Park, with a thin blue haze about their
gray pinnacles 1 I could not behold this great mausoleum of
what is most illustrious in our paternal history, without feeling
my enthusiasm in a glow. With what eagerness did I explore
every part of the metropolis ! I was not content with those
matters which occupy the dignified research of the learned
traveller ; I delighted to call up all the f eelings of childhood, and
to seek after those objects which had been the wonders of my
infancy. London Bridge, so famous in nursery songs ; the far-
famed Monument ; Gog and Magog, and the Lions in the Tower,
all brought back many a recollection of infantile delight, and
of good old beings, now no more, who had gossiped about
them to my wondering ear. Nor was it without a recurrence of
childish interest, that I first peeped into Mr. Newberry's shop,
in St. Paul's Church-yard, that fountain-head of literature.
Mr. Newberry was the first that ever filled my infant mind
with the idea of a great and good man. He published all the
picture-books of the day; and, out of his abundant love for

THE AUTHOR. 9

children, he charged "nothing for either paper or print, and
only a penny-halfpenny for the binding 1"

I have mentioned these circumstances, worthy reader, to
show you the whimsical crowd of associations that are apt to
beset my mind on mingling among English scenes. I hope they
may, in some measure, plead my apology, should I be found
harping upon stale and trivial themes, or indulging an over-
fondness for any thing antique and obsolete. I know it is the,
humour, not to say cant of the day, to run riot about old times,
old books, old customs, and old buildings; with myself, how-
ever, as far as I have caught the contagion, the feeling is
genuine. To a man from a young country, all old things are
in a manner new ; and he may surely be excused in being a
little curious about antiquities, whose native land, unfortun-
ately, cannot boast of a single ruin.

Having been brought up, also, in the comparative simplicity
of a republic, I am apt to be struck with even the ordinary
circumstances incident to an aristocratical state of society.
If, however, I should at any time amuse myself by pointing
out some of the eccentricities, and some of the poetical charac-
teristics of the latter, I would not be understood as pretending
to decide upon its political merits. My only aim is to paint
characters and manners. I am no politician. The more I have
considered the study of politics, the more I have found it full
of perplexity ; and I have contented myself, as I have in my
religion, with the faith in which I was brought up, regulating
my own conduct by its precepts ; but leaving to abler heads
the task of making converts.

I shall continue on, therefore, in the course I have hitherto
pursued ; looking at things poetically, rather than politically ;
describing them as they are, rather than pretending to point
out how they should be ; and endeavouring to see the world in
as pleasant a light as circumstances will permit.

I have always had an opinion that much good might be done
by keeping mankind in good-humour with one another. I may
be wrong in my philosophy, but I shall continue to practise it
until convinced of its fallacy. When I discover the world to
be all that it has been represented by sneering cynics and
whining poets, I will turn to and abuse it also; in the mean-
while, worthy reader, I hope you will not think lightly of me,
because I cannot believe this to be so very bad a world as it is
represented.

Thine truly. GEOFFREY CRAYON.

10 BRACEBRIDGE HALL

THE HALL.

The ancient house, and the best for housekeeping In this county or the next; «nd
though the master of it write but squire, I know no lord like him.— Mei-ry Beggars.

THE reader, if he has perused the volumes of the Sketch-
Book, will probably recollect something of the Bracebrid^o
family, with which I once passed a Christmas. I am now on
another visit to the Hall, having been invited to a wedding
which is shortly to take place. The Squire's second son, Guy,
a fine, spirited young captain in the army, is about to be mar-
ried to his father's ward, the fair Julia Templeton. A gather-
ing of relations and friends has already commenced, to celebrate
the joyful occasion; for the old gentleman is an enemy to quiet,
private weddings. " There is nothing," he says, " like launch-
ing a young couple gayly, and cheering them from the shore;
a good outset is half the voyage."

Before proceeding any farther, I would beg that the Squire
might not be confounded with that class of hard-riding, fox-
hunting gentlemen so often described, and, in fact, so nearly
extinct in England. I use this rural title partly because it is
his universal appellation throughout the neighbourhood, and
partly because it saves me the frequent repetition of his name,
which is one of those rough old English names at which
Frenchmen exclaim in despair.

The Squire is, in fact, a lingering specimen of the old English
country gentleman; rusticated a little by living almost entirely
on his estate, and something of a humouiist, as Englishmen are
apt to become when they have an opportunity of living in their
own way. I like his hobby passing well, however, which is, a
bigoted devotion to old English manners and customs; it jumps
a little with my own humor, having as yet a lively and unsntod
curiosity about the ancient and genuine characteristics of my
"fatherland."

There are some traits about the Squire's family, also, which
appear to me to be national. It is one of those old aristocrati-
cal families, which, I believe, are peculiar to England, and
scarcely understood in other countries ; that is to say, families
of the ancient gentry, who, though destitute of titled rank,
maintain a high ancestral pride; who look down upon all
nobility of recent creation, and would consider it a sacrifice of

THE HALL. \\

dignity to merge the venerable name of their house in a
modern title.

This feeling is very much fostered by the importance which
they enjoy on their hereditary domains. The family mansion
is an old manor-house, standing in a retired and beautiful part
of Yorkshire. Its inhabitants have been always regarded,
through the surrounding country, as ' ' the great ones of the
earth;" and the little village near the Hall looks up to the
Squire with almost feudal homage. An old manor-house, and
an old family of this kind, are rarely to be met with at the
present day; and it is probably the peculiar humour of the
Squire that has retained this secluded specimen of English
housekeeping in something like the genuine old style.

I am again quartered in the panelled chamber, in the antique
wing of the house. The prospect from the window, however,
has quite a different aspect from that which it wore on my
winter visit. Though early in the month of April, yet a few
warm, sunshiny days have drawn forth the beauties of the
spring, which, I think, are always most captivating on their
first opening. The parterres of the old-fashioned garden are
gay with flowers; and the gardener has brought out his exotics,
and placed them along the stone balustrades. The trees are
clothed with green buds and tender leaves. When I throw
open my jingling casement, I smell the odour of mignonette,
aii<l hear the hum of the bees from the flowers against the
sunny wall, with the varied song of the throstle, and the cheer-
ful notes of the tuneful little wren.

While sojourning in this strong-hold of old fashions, it is my
intention to make occasional sketches of the scenes and charac-
ters before me. I would have it understood, however, that I
am not writing a novel, and have nothing of intricate plot, or
marvellous adventure, to promise the reader. The Hall of
which I treat, has, for aught I know, neither trap-door, nor
slicling-panel, nor donjon-keep ; and indeed appears to have no
mystery about it. The family is a worthy, well-meaning
family, that, in all probability, will eat and drink, and go to
bed, and get up regularly, from one end of my work to the
other ; and the Squire is so kind-hearted an old gentleman, that
I see no likelihood of his throwing any kind of distress in the
way of the approaching nuptials. In a word, I cannot fore-
see a single extraordinary event that is likely to occur in the
ivhole term of my sojourn at the Hall.

I tell this honestly to the reader, lest, when he finds me

12 BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

dallying along, through every-day English scenes, he may
hurry ahead, in hopes of meeting with some marvellous adven-
ture further on. I invite him, on the contrary, to ramble
gently on with me, as he would saunter out into the fields,
stopping occasionally to gather a flower, or listen to a bird, or
admire a prospect, without any anxiety to arrive at the end of
his career. Should I, however, in the course of my loiterings
about this old mansion, see or hear anything curious, that
might serve to vary the monotony of this every-day life, I
BhaJl not fail to report it for the reader's entertainment:

For freshest wits I know will soon be wearie

Of any book, how grave so e'er it be,
Except it have odd matter, strange and merrie,

Well sauc'd with lies and glared all with glee.*

THE BUSY MAN.

A decayed gentleman, who lives most upon his own mirth and my master's
raeaus, and much good do him with it. lie does hold my master up with his
stories, and songs, and catches, and such tricks arid jigs, you would admire— he U
with him now.— Jovial Crew.

BY no one has my return to the Hall been more heartily
greeted than by Mr. Simon Bracebridge, or Master Simon, as
the Squire most commonly calls him. I encountered him just
as I entered the park, where he was breaking a pointer, and he
received me with all the hospitable cordiality with which a
man welcomes a friend to another one's house. I have already
introduced him to the reader as a brisk old bachelor-looking
little man ; the wit and superannuated beau of a large family
connection, and the Squire's factotum. I found him, as usual,
full of bustle ; with a thousand petty things to do, and persona
to attend to, and in chirping good-humour; for there are few
happier beings than a busy idler; that is to say, a man who is
eternally busy about nothing.

I visited him, the morning after my arrival, in his chamber,
which is in a remote corner of the mansion, as' he says he likes
to be to himself, and out of the way. He has fitted it up in his
own taste, so that it is a perfect epitome of an old bachelor's

notions of convenience and arrangement. The furniture is

»< i — _

* Mirror for Magistrate*

THE BUSY MAN. 13

made up of odd pieces from all parts of the house, chosen on
account of their suiting his notions, or fitting some corner of
his apartment ; and he is very eloquent in praise of an ancient
elbow-chair, from which he takes occasion to digress into a
censure on modern chairs, as having degenerated from the
dignity and comfort of high-backed antiquity.

Adjoining to his room is a small cabinet, which he calls his
study,, Here are some hanging shelves, of his own construc-
tion, on which are several old works on hawking, hunting, and
farriery, and a collection or two of poems and songs of the
reign of Elizabeth, which he studies out of compliment to the
Squire; together with the Novelist's Magazine, the Sporting
Magazine, the Eacing Calendar, a volume or two of the New-
gate Calendar, a book of peerage, and another of heraldry.

His sporting dresses hang on pegs in a small closet; and
about the walls of his apartment are hooks to hold his fishing-
tackle, whips, spurs, and a favourite fowling-piece, curiously
wrought and inlaid, which he inherits from his grandfather.
He has, also, a couple of old single-keyed flutes, and a fiddle
which he has repeatedly patched and mended himself, affirming
it to be a veritable Cremona, though I have never heard him
extract a single note from it that was not enough to make one's
blood run cold.

From this little nest his fiddle will often be heard, in the
stillness of mid-day, drowsily sawing some long-forgotten tune;
for he prides himself on having a choice collection of good old
English music, and will scarcely have any thing to do with
modern composers. The time, however, at which his musical
powers are of most use, is now and then of an evening, when
he plays for the children to dance in the hall, and he passes
among them and the servants for a perfect Orpheus.

His chamber also bears evidence of his various avocations:
there are half -copied sheets of music ; designs for needle-work ;
sketches of landscapes, very indifferently executed ; a camera
lucida ; a magic lantern, for which he is endeavoring to paint
glasses ; in a word, it is the cabinet of a man of many accom-
plishments, who knows a little of every thing, and does nothing
well.

After I had spent some time in his apartment, admiring the
ingenuity of his small inventions, he took me about the estab-
lishment, to visit the stables, dog-kennel, and other dependen-
cies, in which he appeared like a general visiting the different
quarters of his camp ; as the Squire leaves the control of all

14 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

these matters to him, when he is at the Hall. He inquired
into the state of the horses; examined their feet; prescribed a
drench for one, and bleeding for another; and then took me to
look at his own horse, on the merits of which he dwelt with
great prolixity, and which, I noticed, had the best stall in tho
stable.

\ After this I was taken to a new toy of his and the Squire's,
'which he termed the falconry, where there were several un-
happy birds in durance, completing their education. Among
the number was a fine falcon, which Master Simon had in
especial training, and he told me that he would show me, in a
few days, some rare sport of the good old-fashioned kind. In
the course of our round, I noticed that the grooms, game-keep-
er, whippers-in, and other retainers, seemed all to be on some-
what of a familiar footing with Master Simon, and fond of
having a joke with him, though it was evident they had great
deference for his opinion in matters relating to their functions.

There was one exception, however, in a testy old huntsman,
as hot as a pepper-corn ; a meagre, wiry old fellow, in a thread-
bare velvet jockey cap, and a pair of leather breeches, that,
from much wear, shone, as though they had been japanned.
He was very contradictory and pragmatical, and apt, as I
thought, to differ from Master Simon now and then, out of
mere captiousness. This was particularly the case with respect
to the treatment of the hawk, which the old man seemed to
have under his peculiar care, and, according to Master Simon,
was in a fair way to ruin : the latter had a vast deal to say
about casting, and imping, and gleaming, and enseaming, and
giving the hawk the rangle, which I saw was all heathen
Greek to old Christy; but he maintained his point notwith-
standing, and seemed to hold all this technical lore in utter
disrespect.

I was surprised with the good-humour with which Master
Simon bore his contradictions, till he explained the matter to
me afterwards. Old Christy is the most ancient servant in the
place, having lived among dogs and horses the greater part of
a century, and been in the service of Mr. Bracebridge's father.
He knows the pedigree of every horse on the place, and has
bestrode the great-great-grand sires of most of them. He can
give a circumstantial detail of every fox-hunt for the last sixty
or seventy years, and has a history for every stag's head about
the house, and every hunting trophy nailed to the door of the
dog-kennel.

THE BUST MAN. 15

All the present race have grown up under his eye, and humour
him in his old age. He once attended the Squire to Oxford.,
when he was a student there, and enlightened the whole univer-
sity with his hunting lore. All this is enough to make the old-
man opinionated, since he finds, on all these matters of first-
rate importance, he knows more than the rest of the world.
Indeed, Master Simon had been his pupil, and acknowledges
that he derived his first knowledge in hunting from the in-
structions of Christy; and I much question whether the old
man does not still look upon him rather as a greenhorn.

On our return homewards, as we were crossing the lawn in
front of the house, we heard the porter's bell ring at the lodge,
and shortly afterwards, a kind of cavalcade advanced slowly
up the avenue. At sight of it my companion paused, consid-
ered it for a moment, and then, making a sudden exclamation,
hurried away to meet it. As it approached, I discovered a fair,
fresh-looking elderly lady, dressed in an old-fashioned riding-
habit, with a broad-brimmed white beaver hat, such as may be
seen in Sir Joshua Reynolds' paintings. She rode a sleek white
pony, and was followed by a footman in rich livery, mounted
on an over-fed hunter. At a little distance in the rear came an
ancient cumbrous chariot, drawn by two very corpulent horses,
driven by as corpulent a coachman, beside whom sat a page
dressed in a fanciful green livery. Inside of the chariot was a
starched prim personage, with a look somewhat between a
lady's companion and a lady's maid ; and two pampered curs,
that showed their ugly faces, and barked out of each window.

There was a general turning out of the garrison, to receive
this new comer. The Squire assisted her to alight, and saluted
her affectionately ; the fair Julia flew into her arms, and they
embraced with the romantic fervour of boarding-school friends :
she was escorted into the house by Julia's lover, towards whom
she showed distinguished favour ; and a line of the old servants,
who had collected in the Hall, bowed most profoundly as she
passed.

I observed that Master Simon was most assiduous and devout
in his attentions upon this old lady. He walked by the side of her
pony, up the avenue ; and, while she was receiving the saluta-
tions of the rest of the family, he took occasion to notice the fat
coachman ; to pat the sleek carriage horses, and, above all, to
say a civil word to my lady's gentlewoman, the prim, sour-
looking vestal in the chariot.

I had no more of his company for the rest of the morning.

jg BEACEBRIDGE HALL,

He was swept off in the vortex that followed in the wake of
this lady. Once indeed he paused for a moment, as he was
hurrying on some errand of the good lady's, to let me know
that this was Lady Lillycraft, a sister of the Squire's, of large
fortune, which the captain would inherit, and that her estate
lay in one of the best sporting counties in all England.

FAMILY SERVANTS.

Verily old servants are the vouchers of worthy housekeeping. They are like rats
tn a mansion, or mites in a cheese, bespeaking the antiquity and fatness of their
.tbode.

IN my casual anecdotes of the Hall, I may often be tempted
to dwell on circumstances of a trite and ordinary nature, from
their appearing to me illustrative of genuine national character.
It seems to be the study of the Squire to adhere, as much as
possible, to what he considers the old landmarks of English
manners. His servants all understand his ways, and for the
most part have been accustomed to them from infancy; so
that, upon the whole, his household presents one of the few
tolerable specimens that can now be met with, of the establish-
ment of an English country gentleman of the old school.

By the by, the servants are not the least characteristic part
of the household : the housekeeper, for instance, has been born
and brought up at the Hall, and has never been twenty miles
from it ; yet she has a stately air, that would not disgrace a
lady that had figured at the court of Queen Elizabeth.

I am half inclined to think that she has caught it from living
BO much among the old family pictures. It may, however, be
owing to a consciousness of her importance in the sphere in
which she has always moved ; for she is greatly respected in
the neighbouring village, and among the farmers' wives, and
has high authority in the household, ruling over the servants
with quiet, but undisputed sway.

She is a thin old lady, with blue eyes and pointed nose and
chin. Her dress is always the same as to fashion. She wears
a small, well-starched ruff, a laced stomacher, full petticoats,
and a gown festooned and open in front, which, on particular
occasions, is of ancient silk, the legacy of some former dame of
the family, or an inheritance from her mother, who was house-

FAMILY SERVANTS. 17

keeper before her. I have a reverence for these old garments,
as I make no doubt they have figured about these apartments
in days long past, when they have set off the charms of some
peerless family beauty ; and I have sometimes looked from the
old housekeeper to the neighbouring portraits, to see whether I
could not recognize her antiquated brocade in the dress of
someone of those long-waisted dames that smile on me from
the walls.

Her hair, which is quite white, is frizzed out in front, and
she wears over it a small cap, nicely plaited, and brought down
under the chin. Her manners are simple and primitive, height-
ened a little by a proper dignity of station.

The Hall is her world, and the history of the family the only
history she knows, excepting that which she has read in the
Bible. She can give a biography of every portrait in the pic-
ture gallery, and is a complete family chronicle.

She is treated with great consideration by the Squire. In-
deed, Master Simon tells me that there is a traditional anecdote
current among the servants, of the Squire's having been seen
kissing her in the picture gallery, when they were both young.
As, however, nothing further was ever noticed between them,
the circumstance caused no great scandal; only she was ob-
served to take to reading Pamela shortly afterwards, and
refused the hand of the village inn-keeper, whom she had pre-
viously smiled on.

The old butler, who was formerly footman, and a rejected
admirer of hers, used to tell the anecdote now and then, at those
little cabals that will occasionally take place among the most
orderly servants, arising from the common propensity of the
governed to talk against administration ; but he has left it off,
of late years, since he has risen into place, and shakes his head
rebukingly when it is mentioned.

It is certain that the old lady will, to this day, dwell on the
looks of the Squire when he was a young man at college ; and
she maintains that none of his sons can compare with their
father when he was of their age, and was dressed out in his
full suit of scarlet, with his hair craped and powdered, and his
three-cornered hat.

She has an orphan niece, a pretty, soft-hearted baggage,
named Phoebe Wilkins, who has been transplanted to the Hall
within a year or two, and been nearly spoiled for any condition
of life. She is a kind of attendant and companion of the fair
Julia's; and from loitering about the young lady's apartments,

-lrf BRACEBR1DQE HALL.

reading scraps of novels, and inheriting second-hand finery,
has become something between a waiting-maid and a slipshod

fine lady.

She is considered a kind of heiress among the servants, as
she will inherit all her aunt's property ; which, if report be true,
must be a round sum of good golden guineas, the accumulated
wealth of two housekeepers' savings ; not to mention the heredi-
tary wardrobe, and the many little valuables and knick-knacks,
treasured up in the housekeepers' room. Indeed, the old
housekeeper has the reputation, among the servants and the
villagers, of being passing rich ; and there is a japanned chest
of drawers, and a large iron-bound coffer in her room, which
are supposed, by the house-maids, to hold treasures of wealth.

The old lady is a great friend of Master Simon, who, indeed,
pays a little court to her, as to a person high in authority ; and
they have many discussions on points of family history, in
which, notwithstanding his extensive information, and pride of
knowledge, he commonly admits her superior accuracy. He
seldom returns to the Hall, after one of his visits to the other
branches of the family, without bringing Mrs. Wilkins some
remembrance from the ladies of the house where he has been
staying.

Indeed, all the children of the house look up to the old lady
with habitual respect and attachment, and she seems almost to
consider them as her own, from their having grown up under
her eye. The Oxonian, however, is her favourite, probably from
being the youngest, though he is the most mischievous, and has
been apt to play tricks upon her from boyhood.

I cannot help mentioning one little ceremony, which, I be-
lieve, is peculiar to the Hall. After the cloth is removed at
dinner, the old housekeeper sails into the room and stands be-
hind the Squire's chair, when he fills her a glass of wine with
his own hands, in which she drinks the health of the company
in a truly respectful yet dignified manner, and then retires.
The Squire received the custom from his father, and has always
continued it.

There is a peculiar character about the servants of old Eng-
lish families that reside principally in the country. They have
a quiet, orderly, respectful mode of doing their duties. They
are always neat in their persons, and appropriately, and if I
may use the phrase, technically dressed; they move about the
house without hurry or noise; there is nothing of the bustle of
employment, or the voice of command ; nothing of that obtrusive

FAMILY SERVANTS. 19

housewifery that amounts to a torment. You are not persecu-
ted by the process of making you comfortable ; yet every thing
is done, and is done well. The work of the house is performed
as if by magic, but it is the magic of system. Nothing is done
by fits and starts, nor at awkward seasons ; the whole goes on
like well-oiled clock-work, where there is no noise nor jarring
in its operations.

English servants, in general, are not treated with great in-
dulgence, nor rewarded by many commendations; for the
English are laconic and reserved toward their domestics ; but
an approving nod and a kind word from master or mistress,
goes as far here, as an excess of praise or indulgence elsewhere.
Neither do servants often exhibit any animated marks of affec-
tion to their employers ; yet, though quiet, they are strong in
their attachments; and the reciprocal regard of masters and
servants, though not ardently expressed, is powerful and last-
ing in old English families.

The title of " an old family servant" carries with it a thousand
kind associations, in all parts of the world; and there is no
claim upon the home-bred charities of the heart more irresisti-
ble than that of having been "born in the house." It is com-
mon to see gray-headed domestics of this kind attached to an
English family of the " old school," who continue in it to the
day of their death, in the enjoyment of steady, unaffected
kindness, and the performance of faithful, unofficious duty. I
think such instances of attachment speak well for both master
and servant, and the frequency of them speaks well for national
character.

These observations, however, hold good only with families of
the description I have mentioned ; and with such as are some-
what retired, and pass the greater part of their time in the
country. As to the powdered menials that throng the halls
of fashionable town residences, they equally reflect the charac-
ter of the establishments to which they belong ; and I know no
more complete epitomes of dissolute heartlessness and pam-
pered inutility.

, But, the good "old family servant !" — the one wljfc has always
been linked, in idea, with the home of our heart ; who has led
us to school in the days of prattling childhood ; who has been
the confidant of our boyish cares, and schemes, and enterprises ;
who has hailed us as we came home at vacations, and been the
promoter of all our holiday sports ; who, when we, in wander-
ing manhood, have left the paternal roof, and only return

20 BRACEKRIDGE HALL.

thither at intervals— will welcome us with a joy inferior only to
that of our parents ; who, now grown gray and infirm with age,
still totters about the house of our fathers, in fond and faithful
servitude ; who claims us, in a manner, as his own ; and hastens
with querulous eagerness to anticipate his fellow-domestics in
waiting upon us at table; and who, when we retire at night to
the chamber that still goes by our name, will linger about the
room to have one more kind look, and one more pleasant word
about times that are past— who does not experience towards
such a being a feeling of almost filial affection?

I have met with several instances of epitaphs on the grave-
stones of such valuable domestics, recorded with the sim-
ple truth of natural feeling. I have two before me at this
moment; one copied from a tombstone of a church-yard in
"Warwickshire :

"Here lieth the body of Joseph Batte, confidential servant to
George Birch, Esq., of Hamstead Hall. His grateful friend
and master caused this inscription to be written in memory of
his discretion, fidelity, diligence, and continence. He died (a
bachelor) aged 84, having lived 44 years in the same family. "

The other was taken from a tombstone in Eltham church-
yard:

"Here lie the remains of Mr. James Tappy, who departed
this life on the 8th of September, 1818, aged 84, after a faithful
service of 60 years in one family; by each individual of which
he lived respected, and died lamented by the sole survivor."

Few monuments, even of the illustrious, have given me the
glow about the heart that I felt while copying this honest epi-
taph in the church-yard of Eltham. I sympathized with this
"sole survivor" of a family mourning over the grave of the
faithful follower of his race, who had been, no doubt, a living
memento of times and friends that had passed away ; and in
considering this record of long and devoted service, I called ta
mind the touching speech of Old Adam, in "As You Like It,"
when tottering after the youthful son of his ancient master:

" Master, go on, and I will follow thee
To the last gasp, with love and loyalty 1"

NOTE.— I cannot but mention a tablet which I have seen somewhere in the chape*
of Windsor Castle, put up by the late king to the memory of a family servant, who
had been a faithful attendant of his lamented daughter, the Princess Amelia.
George m. possessed much of the strong domestic feeling of the old English coun-
try gentleman; and it is an incident curious in monumental history, and creditable
to the human heart, a monarch erecting a monument in honour of the humble virtue
of a menial.

THE WIDOW. 21

THE WIDOW.

She was so charitable and pitious

She would weep if that she saw a mous

Caught in a trap, if it were dead or bled:

Of small hounds had she, that she fed

With rost flesh, milke, and wastel bread,

But sore wept she if any of them were dead,

Or if man smote them with a yard smart.— CHAUCER.

NOTWITHSTANDING the whimsical parade made by Lady Lilly-
craft on her arrival, she has none of the petty stateliness that I
had imagined ; but, on the contrary, she has a degree of nature
and simple-heartedness, if I may use the phrase, that mingles
well with her old-fashioned manners and harmless ostentation.
She dresses in rich silks, with long waist ; she rouges consider-
ably, and her hair, which is nearly white, is frizzed out, and
put up with pins. Her face is pitted with the small-pox, but
the delicacy of her features shows that she may once have been
beautiful ; and she has a very fair and well-shaped hand and
arm, of which, if I mistake not, the good lady is still a little
vain.

I have had the curiosity to gather a few particulars concern-
ing her. She was a great belle in town, between thirty and
forty years since, and reigned for two seasons with all the inso-
lence of beauty, refusing several excellent offers; when, un-
fortunately, she was robbed of her charms and her lovers by
an attack of the small-pox. She retired immediately into the
country, where she some time after inherited an estate, and
married a baronet, a former admirer, whose passion had sud-
denly revived ; " having, " as he said, "always loved her mind
rather than her person."

The baronet did not enjoy her mind and fortune above six
months, and had scarcely grown very tired of her, when he
broke his neck in a fox-chase, and left her free, rich, and dis-
consolate. She has remained on her estate in the country ever
since, and has never shown any desire to return to town, and
revisit the scene of her early triumphs and fatal malady. All
her favourite recollections, however, revert to that short period
of her youthful beauty. She has no idea of town but as it was
at that time ; and continually forgets that the place and people
must have changed materially in the course of nearly half a
century. She will often speak of the toasts of those days as if

22 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

Btill reigning; and, until very recently, used to talk with delight
of the royal family, and the beauty of the young princes and
princesses. She cannot be brought to think of the present king
otherwise than as an elegant young man, rather wild, but who
danced a minuet divinely ; and before he came to the crown,
would often mention him as the "sweet young prince."

She talks also of the walks in Kensington Garden, where the
gentlemen appeared in gold-'iaced coats, and cocked hats, and
the ladies in hoops, and swept so proudly along the grassy
avenues; and she thinks the ladies let themselves sadly down
in their dignity, when they gave up cushioned head-dresses,
and high-heeled snoes. She has much to say too of the officers
who were in the train of her admirers ; and speaks familiarly
of many wild young blades, that are now, perhaps, hobbling
about watering-places with crutches and gouty shoes.

Whether the taste the good lady had of matrimony discour-
aged her or not, I cannot say ; but though her merits and her
riches have attracted many suitors, she has never been tempted
to venture again into the happy state. This is singular, too,
for she seems of a most soft and susceptible heart ; is always
talking of love and connubial felicity, and is a great stickler for
old-fashioned gallantry, devoted attentions, and eternal con-
stancy, on the part of the gentlemen. She li ves, however, after
her. own taste. Her house, I am told, must have been built and
furnished about the time of Sir Charles Grandison : every thing
about it is somewhat formal and stately ; but has been softened
down into a degree of voluptuousness, characteristic of an old
lady, very tender-hearted and romantic, and that loves her
ease. The cushions of the great arm-chairs, and wide sofas,
almost bury you when you sit down on them. Flowers of the
most rare and delicate kind are placed about the rooms, and on
little japanned stands ; and sweet bags lie about the tables and
mantel-pieces. The house is full of pet dogs, Angora cats, and
singing birds, who are as carefully waited upon as she is her-
self.

She is dainty in her living, and a little of an epicure, living on
white meats, and little lady-like dishes, though her servants
have substantial old English fare, as their looks bear witness.
Indeed, they are so indulged, that they are all spoiled ; and
when they lose their present place, they will be fit for no other.
Her ladyship is one of those easy-tempered beings that are
always doomed to be much liked, but ill served by their domes-
tics, and cheated by all the world.

THE WIDOW. 23

Much of her time is passed in reading novels, of which she
has a most extensive library, and has a constant supply from
the publishers in town. Her erudition in this line of literature
is immense ; she has kept pace with the press for half a century.
Her mind is stuffed with love-tales of all kinds, from the stately
amours of the old books of chivalry, down to the last blue-
covered romance, reeking from the press ; though she evidently
gives the preference to those that came out in the days of her
youth, and when she was first in love. She maintains that
there are no novels written now-a-days equal to Pamela and Sir
Charles Grandison ; and she places the Castle of Otranto at the
head of all romances.

She does a vast deal of good hi her neighbourhood, and is
imposed upon by every beggar in the county. She is the bene-
factress of a village adjoining to her estate, and takes an especial
interest in all its love-affairs. She knows of every courtship
that is going on ; every lovelorn damsel is sure to find a patient
listener and a sage adviser in her ladyship. She takes great
pains to reconcile all love-quarrels, and should any faithless
swain persist in his inconstancy, he is sure to draw on himself
the good lady's violent indignation.

I have learned these particulars partly from Frank Brace-
bridge, and partly from Master Simon. I am now able to
account for the assiduous attention of the latter to her lady-
ship. Her house is one of his favourite resorts, where he is a
very important personage. He makes her a visit of business
once a year, when he looks into all her affairs ; which, as she is
no manager, are apt to get into confusion. He examines the
books of the overseer, and shoots about the estate, which, he
says, is well stocked with game, notwithstanding that it is
poached by all the vagabonds in the neighbourhood.

It is thought, as I before hinted, that the captain will inherit
the greater part of her property, having always been her chief
favourite ; for, in fact, she is partial to a red coat. She has now
come to the Hall to be present at his nuptials, having a great
disposition to interest herself in all matters of love and matri-
mony.

BRACEBRIDOE HALL

THE LOVERS.

Rise up my love, my fair one, and come away; for, lo, the winter is past, the rain
is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds
is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.— SONO OF SOLOMON.

To a man who is a little of a philosopher, and a bachelor to
boot • and who, by dint of some experience in the follies of life,
begins to look with a learned eye upon the ways of man, and
eke of woman; to such a man, I say, there is something very
entertaining in noticing the conduct of a pair of young lovers.
It may not be as grave and scientific a study as the loves of the
plants, but it is certainly as interesting.

I have, therefore, derived much pleasure, since my arrival at
the Hall, from observing the fair Julia and her lover. She has
all the delightful, blushing consciousness of an artless girl, inex-
perienced in coquetry, who has made her first conquest ; while
the captain regards her with that mixture of fondness and exul-
tation with which a youthful lover is apt to contemplate so
beauteous a prize.

I observed them yesterday in the garden, advancing along
one of the retired walks. The sun was shining with delicious
warmth, making great masses of bright verdure, and deep blue
shade. The cuckoo, that "harbinger of spring," was faintly
heard from a distance ; the thrush piped from the hawthorn ;
and the yellow butterflies sported, and toyed, and coquetted in
the air.

The fair Julia was leaning on her lover's arm, listening to his
conversation, with her eyes cast down, a soft blush on her
cheek, and a quiet smile on her lips, while in the hand that
hung negligently by her side was a bunch of flowers. In this
way they were sauntering slowly along ; and when I considered
them and the scene in which they were moving, I could not but
think it a thousand pities that the season should ever change,
or that young people should ever grow older, or that blossoms
should give way to fruit, or that lovers should ever get mar-
ried.

From what I have gathered of family anecdote, I understand
that the fair Julia is the daughter of a favourite collepre friend
of the Squire ; who, after leaving Oxford, had entered the army,
and served for many years in India, where he was mortally
wounded in a skirmish with the natives. In his last momenta

THE LOVERS. 25

he had, with a faltering pen, recommended his wife and daugh-
ter to the kindness of his early friend.

The widow and her child returned to England helpless and
almost hopeless. When Mr. Bracebridge received accounts of
their situation, he hastened to their relief. He reached them
just in time to soothe the last moments of the mother, who was
dying of a consumption, and to make her happy in the assur-
ance that her child should never want a protector.

The good Squire returned with his prattling charge to his
strong-hold, where he had brought her up with a tenderness
truly paternal. As he has taken some pains to superintend her
education, and form her taste, she has grown up with many of
his notions, and considers him the wisest, as well as the best of
men. Much of her time, too, has been passed with Lady Lilly-
craft, who has instructed her in the manners of the old school,
and enriched her mind with all kinds of novels and romances.
Indeed, her ladyship has had a great hand in promoting the
match between Julia and the captain, having had them together
at her country-seat, the moment she found there was an attach-
ment growing up between them ; the good lady being never so
happy as when she has a pair of turtles cooing about her.

I have been pleased to see the fondness with which the fair
Julia is regarded by the old servants at the Hall. She has been
a pet with them from childhood, and every one seems to lay
some claim to her education ; so that it is no wonder that she
should be extremely accomplished. The gardener taught her
to rear flowers, of which she is extremely fond. Old Christy,
the pragmatical huntsman, softens when she approaches ; and
as she sits lightly and gracefully in her saddle, claims the merit
of having taught her to ride ; while the housekeeper, who almost
looks upon her as a daughter, intimates that she first gave her
an insight into the mysteries of the toilet, having been dressing-
maid, in her young days, to the late Mrs. Bracebridge. I am
inclined to credit this last claim, as I have noticed that the dress
of the young lady had an air of the old school, though managed
with native taste, and that her hair was put up very much in
the style of Sir Peter Lely's portraits in the picture gallery.

Her very musical attainments partake of this old-fashioned
character, and most of her songs are such as are not at the
present day to be found on the piano of a modern performer.
I have, however, seen so much of modern fashions, modern
accomplishments, and modern fine ladies, that I relish this tinge
of antiquated style in so young and lovely a girl ; and I have

26 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

had as much pleasure in hearing her warble one of the old songs
of Herrick. or Carew, or Suckling, adapted to some simple old
melody, as I have had from listening to a lady amateur sky-
lark it up and down through the finest bravura of Rossini or
Mozart.

We have very pretty music in the evenings, occasionally,
between her and the captain, assisted sometimes by Master
Simon, who scrapes, dubiously, on his violin ; being very apt to
get out, and to halt a note or two in the rear. Sometimes he
even thrums a little on the piano, and takes a part in a trio, in
which his voice can generally be distinguished by a certain
quavering tone, and an occasional false mote.

I was praising the fair Julia's performance to him, after one
of her songs, when I found he took to himself the whole credit
of having formed her musical taste, assuring me that she was
very apt ; and, indeed, summing up her whole character in his
knowing way, by adding, that " she was a very nice girl, and
had no nonsense about her."

FAMILY RELIQUES.

My Infelice's face, her brow, her eye,

The dimple on her cheek: and such sweet skill

Hath from the cunning workman's pencil flown,

These lips look fresh and lively as her own.

False colours last after the true be dead.

Of all the roses grafted on her cheeks,

Of all the graces dancing in her eyes,

Of all the music set upon her tongue,

Of all that was past woman's excellence

In her white bosom; look, a painted board

Circumscribes all !— DEKKER.

AN old English family mansion is a fertile subject for study.
It abounds with illustrations of former times, and traces of the
tastes, and humours, and manners of successive generations.
The alterations and additions, in different styles of architecture ;
the furniture, plate, pictures, hangings ; the warlike and sport-
ing implements of different ages and fancies; all furnish food
for curious and amusing speculation. As the Squire is very
careful in collecting and \ jreserving all family reliques, the Hall
is full of remembrances of the kind. In looking about the estab-
lishment, I can picture to myself the characters and habits that

FAMILY RELIQUES. 27

have prevailed at different eras of the family history. I have
mentioned, on a former occasion, the armour of the crusader
which hangs up in the Hall. There are also several jack-boots,
with enormously thick soles and high heels, that belonged to a set
of cavaliers, who filled the Hall with the din and stir of arms
during the time of the Covenanters. A number of enormous
drinking vessels of antique fashion, with huge Venice glasses,
and green-hock-glasses, with the apostles in relief on them,
remain- as monuments of a generation or two of hard livers,
that led a life of roaring revelry, and first introduced the gout
into the family.

I shall pass over several more such indications of temporary
tastes of the Squire's predecessors; but I cannot forbear to
notice a pair of antlers in the great hall, which is one of the
trophies of a hard-riding squire of former times, who was the
Nimrod of these parts. There are many traditions of his won-
derful feats in hunting still existing, which are related by old
Christy, the huntsman, who gets exceedingly nettled if they
are in the least doubted. Indeed, there is a frightful chasm,
a few miles from the Hall, which goes by the name of the
Squire's Leap, from his having cleared it in the ardour of the
chase ; there can be no doubt of the fact, for old Christy shows
the very dints of the horse's hoofs on the rocks on each side of
the chasm.

Master Simon holds the memory of this squire in great venera-
tion, and has a number of extraordinary stories to tell concern-
ing him, which he repeats at all hunting dinners; and I am
told that they wax more and more marvellous the older they
grow. He has also a pair of Rippon spurs which belonged to
this mighty hunter of yore, and which he only wears on par-
ticular occasions.

The place, however, which abounds most with mementos of
past times, is the picture gallery; and there is something
strangely pleasing, though melancholy, in considering the long
rows of portraits which compose the greater part of the collec-
tion. They furnish a kind of narrative of the lives of the family
worthies, which I am enabled to read with the assistance of the
venerable housekeeper, who is the family chronicler, prompted
occasionally by Master Simon. There is the progress of a fine
lady, for instance, through a variety of portraits. One repre-
sents her as a little girl, with a long waist and hoop, holding a
kitten in her arms, and ogling the spectator out of the corners
of her eyes, as if she could not turn her head. In another, we

28 BRACKBRIDOE HALL.

find her in the freshness of youthful beauty, when she was a
celebrated belle, and so hard-hearted as to cause several unfor-
tunate gentlemen to run desperate and write bad poetry. In
another, she is depicted as a stately dame, in the maturity of
her charms; next to the portrait of her husband, a gallant
colonel in full-bottomed wig and gold-laced hat, who was killed
abroad ; and, finally, her monument is in the church, the spire
of which may be seen from the window, where her effigy is
carved in marble, and represents her as a venerable dame of
seventy-six.

In like manner, I have followed some of the family great men
through a series of pictures, from early boyhood to the robe of
dignity, or truncheon of command; and so on by degrees,
until they were garnered up in the common repository, the
neighbouring church.

There is one group that particularly interested me. It con-
sisted of four sisters, of nearly the same age, who flourished
about a century since, and, if I may judge from their portraits,
were extremely beautiful. I can imagine what a scene of
gayety and romance this old mansion must have been, when
they were in the heyday of their charms ; when they passed
like beautiful visions through its halls, or stepped daintily to
music in the revels and dances of the cedar gallery ; or printed,
with delicate feet, the velvet verdure of these lawns. How
must they have been looked up to with mingled love, and
pride, and reverence by the old family servants ; and followed
with almost painful admiration by the aching eyes of rival
admirers ! How must melody, and song, and tender serenade,
have breathed about these courts, and their echoes whispered
to the loitering tread of lovers 1 How must these very turrets
have made the hearts of the young galliards thrill, as they first
discerned them from afar, rising from among the trees, and
pictured to themselves the beauties casketed like gems within
these walls ! Indeed, I have discovered about the place several
faint records of this reign of love and romance, when the Hall
was a kind of Court of Beauty.

Several of the old romances in the library have marginal
notes expressing sympathy and approbation, where there are
long speeches extolling ladies' charms, or protesting eternal
fidelity, or bewailing the cruelty of some tyrannical fair one.
The interviews, and declarations, and parting scenes of tender
lovers, also bear the marks of having been frequently read,
and are scored and marked with notes of admiration, and have

FAMILY RELIQUES. 29

initials written on the margins; most of which annotations
have the day of the month and year annexed to them. Several
of the windows, too, have scraps of poetry engraved on them
with diamonds, taken from the writings of the fair Mrs.
Philips, the once celebrated Orinda, Some of these seem to
have been inscribed by lovers ; and others, in a delicate and
unsteady hand, and a little inaccurate in the spelling, have
evidently been written by the young ladies themselves, or by
female friends, who have been on visits to the Hall. Mrs.
Philips seems to have been their favourite author, and they have
distributed the names of her heroes and heroines among their
circle of intimacy. Sometimes, in a male hand, the verse
bewails the cruelty of beauty, and the sufferings of constant
love; while in a female hand it prudishly confines itself to
lamenting the parting of female friends. The bow-window of
my bed-room, which has, doubtless, been inhabited by one of
these beauties, has several of these inscriptions. I have one at
this moment before my eyes, called " Camilla parting with
Leonora:"

" How perish'd is the joy that's past,

The present how unsteady !
What comfort can be great and last,
When this is gone, already'."

And close by it is another, written, perhaps, by some adven-
turous lover, who had stolen into the lady's chamber during
her absence:

"THEODOSIUS TO CAMILLA.

I'd rather in your favour live,

Than in a lasting name ;
And much a greater rate would give

For happiness than fame.

THEODOSIUS. 1700."

When I look at these faint records of gallantry and tender-
ness ; when I contemplate the fading portraits of these beauti-
ful girls, and think, too, that they have long since bloomed,
reigned, grown old, died, and passed away, and with them all
their graces, their triumphs, their rivalries, their admirers ; the
whole empire of love and pleasure in which they ruled — "all
dead, all buried, all forgotten," I find a cloud of melancholy
stealing over the present gayeties around me. I was gazing,
in a musing mood, this very morning, at the portrait of the
lady whose husband was killed abroad, when the fair Julia
entered the gallery, leaning on the arm of the captain. Tbt

50 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

sun stone through the row of windows on her as she passed
along, and she seemed to beam out each time into brightness,
and relapse into shade, until the door at the bottom of the
gallery closed after her. I felt a sadness of heart at the idea,
that this was an emblem of her lot: a few more years of sun-
shine and shade, and all this life and loveliness, and enjoyment,
will have ceased, and nothing be left to commemorate tliis
'beautiful being but one more perishable portrait ; to awaken,
perhaps, the trite speculations of some future loiterer, like
myself, when I and my scribblings shall have lived through
our brief existence, and been forgotten.

AN OLD SOLDIER

I've worn some leather out abroad; let out a heathen soul or two; fed this good
gword with the black blood of pagau Christians; converted a few infidels with it. —
But let that pass.— The Ordinary.

THE Hall was thrown into some little agitation, a few days
since, by the arrival of General Harbottle. He had been
expected for several days, and had been looked for, rather
impatiently, by several of the family. Master Simon assured
me that I would like the general hugely, for he was a blade of
the old school, and an excellent table companion. Lady Lilly-
craft, also, appeared to be somewhat fluttered, on the morning
of the general's arrival, for he had been one of her early admi-
rers ; and she recollected him only as a dashing young ensign,
just come upon the town. She actually spent an hour longer
at her toilette, and made her appearance with her hair uncom-
monly frizzed and powdered, and an additional quantity of
rouge. She was evidently a little surprised and shocked, there-
fore, at finding the lithe, dashing ensign transformed into a
corpulent old general, with a double chin; though it was a
perfect picture to witness their salutations; the graciousness
of her profound curtsy, and the air of the old school with which
the general took off his hat, swayed it gently in his hand, and
bowed his powdered head.

All this bustle and anticipation has caused me to study the
general with a little more attention than, perhaps, I should
otherwise have done ; and the few days that he has already

AN OLD SOLDIER. 31

passed at the Hall have enabled me, I think, to furnish a toler-
able likeness of him to the reader.

He is, as Master Simon observed, a soldier of the old school,
with powdered head, side locks, and pigtail. His face is shaped
like the stern of a Dutch man-of-war, narrow at top and wide
at bottom, with full rosy cheeks and a double chin ; so that, to
use the cant of the day, his organs of eating may be said to be
powerfully developed.

The general, though a veteran, has seen very little active
service, except the taking of Seringapatam, which forms an
era in his history. He wears a large emerald in his bosom,
and a diamond on his finger, which he got on that occasion,
and whoever is unlucky enough to notice either, is sure to
involve himself in the whole history of the siege. To judge
from the general's conversation, the taking of Seringapatam is
the most important affair that has occurred for the last
century.

On the approach of warlike times on the continent, he was
rapidly promoted to get him out of the way of younger officers
of merit ; until, having been hoisted to the rank of general, he
was quietly laid on the shelf. Since that time, his campaigns
have been principally confined to watering-places; where he
drinks the waters for a slight touch of the liver which he got
in India ; and plays whist with old dowagers, with whom he
has flirted in his younger days. Indeed, he talks of all the fine
women of the last half century, and, according to hints which
he now and then drops, has enjoyed the particular smiles of
many of them.

He has seen considerable garrison duty, and can speak of
almost every place famous for good quarters, and where the
inhabitants give good dinners. He is a diner out of first-rate
currency, when in town; being invited to one place, because
he has been seen at another. In the same way he is invited
about the country-seats, and can describe half the seats in the
kingdom, from actual observation ; nor is any one better versed
in court gossip, and the pedigrees and intermarriages of the
nobility.

As the general is an old bachelor, and an old beau, and there
are several ladies at the Hall, especially his quondam flame
Lady Jocelyne, he is put rather upon his gallantry. He com-
monly passes some time, therefore, at his toilette, and takes
the field at a late hour every morning, with his hair dressed
out and powdered, and a rose in his button-hole. After he has

32 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

breakfasted, he walks up and down the terrace in the sunshine,
humming an air, and hemming between every stave, carrying
one hand behind his back, and with the other touching his cane
to the ground, and then raising it up to his shoulder. Should
he, in these morning promenades, meet any of the elder ladies
of the family, as he frequently does Lady Ldllycraft, his hat is
immediately in his hand, and it is enough to remind one of
those courtly groups of ladies and gentlemen, in old prints of
Windsor terrace, or Kensington garden.

He talks frequently about " the service," and is fond of hum-
ming the old song,

Why, soldiers, why,

Should we be melancholy, boys?

Why, soldiers, why,

Whose business 't is to die !

I cannot discover, however, that the general has ever run any
great risk of dying, excepting from an apoplexy or an indiges-
tion. He criticises all the battles on the continent, and discusses
the merits of the commanders, but never fails to bring the
conversation, ultimately, to Tippoo Saib and Seringapatam. I
am told that the general was a perfect champion at drawing-
rooms, parades, and watering-places, during the late war, and
was looked to with hope and confidence by many an old lady,
when labouring under the terror of Buonaparte's invasion.

He is thoroughly loyal, and attends punctually on levees
when in town. He has treasured up many remarkable sayings
of the late king, particularly one which the king made to him
on a field-day, complimenting him on the excellence of his
horse. He extols the whole royal family, but especially the
present king, whom he pronounces the most perfect gentleman
and best whist-player in Europe. The general swears rather
more than is the fashion of the present day ; but it was the
mode in the old school. He is, however, very strict in religious
matters, and a staunch churchman. He repeats the responses
very loudly in church, and is emphatical in praying for the
king and royal family.

At table, his loyalty waxes very fervent with his second
bottle, and the song of "God save the King" puts him into a
perfect ecstasy. He is amazingly well contented with the
present state of things, and apt to get a little impatient at any
talk about national ruin and agricultural distress. He says he
has travelled about the country as much as any man, and has
met with nothing but prosperity ; and to confess the truth, a

TEE WIDOW'S RETINUE. 33

great part of his time is spent in visiting from one country-seat
to another, and riding about the parks of his friends. "They
talk of public distress," said the general this day to me, at
dinner, as he smacked a glass of rich burgundy, and cast his
eyes about the ample board; " they talk of public distress, but
where do we find it, sir? I see none. I see no reason why any
one has to complain. Take my word for it, sir, this talk about
public distress is all humbug !"

THE WIDOW'S EETINUE.

Little dogs and all ! — Lear.

IN giving an account of the arrival of Lady Lillycraft at the
Hall, I ought to have mentioned the entertainment which I
derived from witnessing the unpacking of her carriage, and the
disposing of her retinue. There is something extremely amus-
ing to me in the number of factitious wants, the loads of
imaginary conveniences, but real encumbrances, with which
the luxurious are apt to burthen themselves. I like to watch
the whimsical stir and display about one of these petty pro-
gresses. The number of robustious footmen and retainers of
all kinds bustling about, with looks of infinite gravity and im-
portance, to do almost nothing. The number of heavy trunks,
and parcels, and bandboxes belonging to my lady; and the
solicitude exhibited about some humble, odd-looking box, by
my lady's maid ; the cushions piled in the carriage to make a
soft seat still softer, and to prevent the dreaded possibility of a
jolt; the smelling-bottles, the cordials, the baskets of biscuit
and fruit ; the new publications ; all provided to guard against
hunger, fatigue, or ennui ; the led horses, to vary the mode of
travelling ; and all this preparation and parade to move, per-
haps, some very good-for-nothing personage about a little space
of earth !

I do not mean to apply the latter part of these observations
to Lady Lillycraft, for whose simple kind-heartedness I have a
very great respect, and who is really a most amiable and worthy
being. I cannot refrain, however, from mentioning some of
the motley retinue she has brought with her ; and which, in-
deed, bespeak the overflowing kindness of her nature, which
requires her to be surrounded with objects on which to lavish it.

g4 BRACEBRIDOK HALL.

Tn the first place, her ladyship has a pampered coachman,
with a red face, and cheeks that hang down like dew-laps. He
evidently domineers over her a little with respect to the fat
horses ; and only drives out when he thinks proper, and when
he thinks it will be "good for the cattle."

She has a favourite page, to attend upon her person ; a hand-
some boy of about twelve years of age, but a mischievous var-
let, very much spoiled, and in a fair way to be good for nothing.
He is dressed in green, with a profusion of gold cord and gilt
buttons about his clothes. She always has one or two attend-
ants of the kind, who are replaced by others as soon as they
grow to fourteen years of age. She has brought two dogs with
her, also, out of a number of pets which she maintains at home.
One is a fat spaniel, called Zephyr — though heaven defend me
from such a zephyr ! He is fed out of all shape and comfort ;
his eyes are nearly strained out of his head ; he wheezes with
corpulency, and cannot walk without great difficulty. The
other is a little, old, gray -muzzled curmudgeon, with an un-
happy eye, that kindles like a coal if you only look at him ; his
nose turns up ; his mouth is drawn into wrinkles, so as to show
his teeth ; in short, he has altogether the look of a dog far gone
in misanthropy, and totally siok of the world. When he
walks, he has his tail curled up so tight that it seems to lift his
feet from the ground ; and he seldom makes use of more than
three legs at a time, keeping the other drawn up as a reserve.
This last wretch is called Beauty.

These dogs are full of elegant ailments, unknown to vulgar
dogs ; and are petted and nursed by Lady Lallycraft with the
tenderest kindness. They are pampered and fed with delica-
cies by their fellow-minion, the page ; but their stomachs are
often weak and out of order, so that they cannot eat ; though I
have now and then seen the page give them a mischievous
pinch, or thwack over the head, when his mistress was not by.
They have cushions for their express use, on which they lie
before the fire, and yet are apt to shiver and moan if there is
the least draught of air. When any one enters the room, they
make a most tyrannical barking that is absolutely deafening.
They are insolent to all the other dogs of the establishment.
There is a noble stag-hound, a great favourite of the Squire's,
who is a privileged visitor to the parlour; but the moment he
makes his appearance, these intruders fly at him with furious
rage ; and I have admired the sovereign indifference and con-
tempt with which he seems to look down upon his puny assail-

THE WIDOWS RETINUE. %?

ants. When her ladyship drives oat, these dogs are generally
carried with her to take the air ; when they look out of each
window of the carriage, and bark at all vulgar pedestrian dogs.
These dogs are a continual source of misery to the household :
as they are always in the way, they every now and then ge*
their toes trod on, and then there is a yelping on their part, and
a loud lamentation on the part of their mistress, that fills the
room with clamour and confusion

Lastly, there is her ladyship's waiting-gentlewoman, Mrs.
Hannah, a prim, pragmatical old maid; one of the most
intolerable and intolerant virgins that ever lived. She has
kept her virtue by her until it has turned sour, and now every
word and look smacks of verjuice. She is the very opposite to
her mistress, for one hates, and the other loves, all mankind.
How they first came together I cannot imagine ; but they have
lived together for many years ; and the abigail's temper being
tart and encroaching, and her ladyship's easy and yielding, the
former has got the complete upper hand, and tyrannizes over
the good lady in secret.

Lady Lillycraft now and then complains of it, in great con-
fidence, to her friends, but hushes up the subject immediately,
if Mrs. Hannah makes her appearance. Indeed, she has been
so accustomed to be attended by her, that she thinks she could
not do without her ; though one great study of her life, is to
keep Mrs. Hannah in good-humour, by little presents and kind-
nesses. f

Master Sinu,a has a most devout abhorrence, mingled with
awe, for this ancient spinster. He told me the other day, in a
whisper, that she was a cursed brimstone — in fact, he added
another epithet, which I woiild not repeat for the world. I
have remarked, however, that he is always extremely ci^1 ix>
her when they meet.

36 BRACEBRIVGE HALL.

READY-MONEY JACK.

My purse, it is my privy wyfe,

This song I dare both syng and say,

It keepeth men from grievous stryfe

When every man for himself shall pay.

As I ryde in ryche array

For gold and silver men wyll me floryshe;

But thys matter I dare well saye.

Every gramercy myne own purse.— Book of Hunting.

ON the skirts of the neighbouring village, there lives a kind of
small potentate, who, for aught I know, is a representative of
one of the most ancient legitimate lines of the present day ; for
the empire over which he reigns has belonged to his family
time out of mind. His territories comprise a considerable
number of good fat acres ; and his seat of power is in an old
farm-house, where he enjoys, unmolested, the stout oaken
chair of his ancestors. The personage to whom I allude is a
sturdy old yeoman of the name of John Tibbets, or rather,
Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, as he is called throughout the
neighbourhood.

The first place where he attracted my attention was in the
church-yard on Sunday ; where he sat on a tombstone after the
service, with his hat a little on one side, holding forth to a
small circle of auditors; and, as I presumed, expounding the
law and the prophets ; until, on drawing a little nearer, I found
he was only expatiating on the merits of a brown horse. He
presented so faithful a picture of a substantial English yeoman,
such as he is often described in books, heightened, indeed, by
some little finery, peculiar to himself, that I could not but take
i note of his whole appearance.

He was between fifty and sixty, of a strong, muscular frame,
and at least six feet high, with a physiognomy as grave as a
lion's, and set off with short, curling, iron-gray locks. His
Blurt-collar was turned down, and displayed a neck covered
with the same short, curling, gray hair ; and he wore a coloured
silk neckcloth, tied very loosely, and tucked in at the bosom,
with a green paste brooch on the knot. His coat was of dark
green cloth, with silver buttons, on each of which was engraved
a stag, with his own name, John Tibbets, underneath. He had
an inner waistcoat of figured chintz, between which and hie
coat was another of scarlet cloth, unbuttoned. His breeches

READY-MONET JACK 37

were also left unbuttoned at the knees, not from any sloven-
liness, but to show a broad pair of scarlet garters. His stock-
ings were blue, with white clocks ; he wore large silver shoe-
buckles ; a broad paste buckle in his hatband ; his sleeve-buttons
were gold seven-shilling pieces ; and he had two or three guineas
hanging as ornaments to his watch-chain.

On making some inquiries about him, I gathered that he was
descended from a line of farmers, that had always lived on the
same spot, and owned the same property ; and that half of the
church-yard was taken up with the tombstones of his race. He
has all his lif e been an important character in the place. When
a youngster, he was one of the most roaring blades of the
neighbourhood. No one could match him at wrestling, pitching
the bar, cudgel play, and other athletic exercises. Lake the
renowned Pinner of Wakefield, he was the village champion ;
carried off the prize at all the fairs, and threw his gauntlet at
the country round. Even to this day, the old people talk of his
prowess, and undervalue, in comparison, all heroes of the green
that have succeeded him ; nay, they say, that if Ready-Money
Jack were to take the field even now, there is no one could
stand before him.

When Jack's father died, the neighbours shook their heads,
and predicted that young hopeful would soon make way with
the old homestead ; but Jack falsified all their predictions. The
moment he succeeded to the paternal farm, he assumed a new
character ; took a wife ; attended resolutely to his affairs, and
became an industrious, thrifty farmer. With the family pro-
perty, he inherited a set of old family maxims, to which he
steadily adhered. He saw to everything himself ; put his own
hand to the plough; worked hard; ate heartily; slept soundly;
paid for every thing in cash down ; and never danced, except
he could do it to the music of his own money in both pockets.
He has never been without a hundred or two pounds in gold by
him, and never allows a debt to stand unpaid. This has gained
him his current name, of which, by the by, he is a little proud ;
and has caused him to be looked upon as a very wealthy man
by all the village.

Notwithstanding his thrift, however, he has never denied
himself the amusements of life, but has taken a share in every
passing pleasure. It is his maxim that ' ' he that works hard
can afford to play. " He is, therefore, an attendant at all the
country fairs and wakes, and has signalized him pelf by feats of
strength and prowess on every village green in the shire. He

430076

38 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

often makes his appearance at horse-races, and sports his half-
guinea, and even his guinea at a time ; keeps a good horse for
his own riding, and to this day is fond of following the hounds,
and is generally in at the death. He keeps up the rustic
revels, and hospitalities too, for which his paternal fann-house
has always been noted ; has plenty of good cheer and dancing
at harvest-home, and, above all, keeps the "merry night," * as
it is termed, at Christmas.

With all his love of amusement, however, Jack is by no
means a boisterous, jovial companion. He is seldom known to
laugh even in the midst of his gayety ; but maintains the
same grave, lion-like demeanour. He is very slow at compre-
hending a joke ; and is apt to sit puzzling at it with a perplexed
look, while the rest of the company is in a roar. This gravity
has, perhaps, grown on him with the growing weight of his
character ; for he is gradually rising into patriarchal dignity
in his native place. Though he no longer takes an active part
in athletic sports, yet he always presides at them, and is ap-
pealed to on all occasions as umpire. He maintains the peace
on the village green at holiday games, and quells all brawls
and quarrels by collaring the parties and shaking them heartily,
if refractory. No one ever pretends to raise a hand against
him, or to contend against his decisions ; the young men hav-
ing grown up in habitual awe of his prowess, and in impli-
cit deference to him as the champion and lord of the green.

He is a regular frequenter of the village inn, the landlady
having been a sweetheart of his in early life, and he having
always continued on kind terms with her. He seldom, how-
ever, drinks any thing but a draught of ale ; smokes his pipe,
and pays his reckoning before leaving the tap-room. Here he
"gives his little senate laws ;" decides bets, which are very gen-
erally referred to him; determines upon the characters and
qualities of horses ; and, indeed, plays now and then the part
of a judge in settling petty disputes between neighbours, which
otherwise might have been nursed by country attorneys into
tolerable law-suits. Jack is very candid and impartial in his
decisions, but he has not a head to carry a long argument,
and is very apt to get perplexed and out of patience if there ia
much pleading. He generally breaks through the argument

* MERRY NIGHT — a rustic merry-making in a farm-house about Christmas, com
mon In some parts of Yorkshire. There is abundance of homely fare, tea, cakes,
fruit, and ale; various feats of agility, amusing games, romping, dancing, and kisa»
Ing withal. They commonly break up at midnight.

READY-MONEY JACK 33

with a strong voice, and brings matters to a summary conclu-
sion, by pronouncing what he calls the "upshot of the busi-
ness," or, in other words, "the -long and the short of the
matter."

Jack once made a journey to London, a great many years
since, which has furnished him with topics of conversation
ever since. He saw the old king on the terrace at Windsor,
who stopped, and pointed him out to one of the princesses,
being probably struck with Jack's truly yeoman-like appear-
ance. This is a favourite anecdote with him, and has no doubt
had a great effect in making him a most loyal subject ever
since, in spite of taxes and poors' rates. He was also at Bar-
tholomew fair, where he had half the buttons cut off his coat ;
and a gang of pick-pockets, attracted by his external show of
gold and silver, made a regular attempt to hustle him as he was
gazing at a show; but for once they found that they had
caught a tartar ; for Jack enacted as great wonders among the
gang as Samson did among the Philistines. One of his neigh-
bours, who had accompanied him to town, and was with him at
the fair, brought back an account of his exploits, which raised
the pride of the whole village ; who considered their champion
as having subdued ah1 London, and eclipsed the achievements
of Friar Tuck, or even the renowned Robin Hood himself.

Of late years, the old fellow has begun to take the world
easily ; he works less, and indulges in greater leisure, his son
having grown up, and succeeded to Mm both in the labours of
the farm, and the exploits of the green. Like all sons of dis-
tinguished men, however, his father's renown is a disadvantage
to him, for he can never come up to public expectation.
Though a fine active fellow of three-and-twenty, and quite the
"cock of the walk, "yet the old people declare he is nothing
like what Ready-Money Jack was at his time of life. The
youngster himself acknowledges his inferiority, and has a won-
derful opinion of the old man, who indeed taught him all his
athletic accomplishments, and holds such a sway over him,
that I am told, even to this day, he would have no hesitation
to take him in hands, if he rebelled against paternal govern-
ment.

The Squire holds Jack in very high esteem, and shows him
to all his visitors, as a specimen of old English "heart of oak."
He frequently calls at his house, and tastes some of his home-
brewed, which is excellent. He made Jack a present of old
Tusser's "Hundred Points of good Husbandrie," which has

40 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

furnished him with reading ever since, and is his text-book
and manual in all agricultural and domestic concerns. He haa
made dog's ears-at the most favourite passages, and knows
many of the poetical maxims by heart.

Tibbets, though not a man to be daunted or flattered by high
acquaintances; and though he cherishes a sturdy independence
of mind and manner, yet is evidently gratified by the atten-
tions of the Squire, whom he has known from boyhood, and
pronounces ' ' a truegentleman every inch of him. " He is also on
excellent terms with Master Simon, who is a kind of privy
counsellor to the family ; but his great favourite is the Oxonian,
whom he taught to wrestle and play at quarter-staff when a
boy, and considers the most promising young gentleman in
the whole country.

BACHELORS.

The Bachelor most joyfully

In pleasant plight doth pass his dales.

Good fellowship and conipanie

He doth maintain and keep alwaies. — EVKJ'S Old Balladt.

THERE is no character in the comedy of human life that ia
more difficult to play well, than that of an old Bachelor. When
ft single gentleman, therefore, arrives at that critical period
when he begins to consider it an impertinent question to be
asked his age, I would advise him to look well to his ways.
This period, it is true, is much later with some men than with
others ; I have witnessed more than once the meeting of two
wrinkled old lads of this kind, who had not seen each other for
several years, and have been amused by the amicable exchange
of compliments on each other's appearance, that takes place on
Buch occasions. There is always one invariable observation:
u Why, bless my soul ! you look younger than when I last saw
you !" Whenever a man's friends begin to compliment him
about looking young, he may be sure that they think he is
growing old.

I am led to make these remarks by the conduct of Master
Simon and the general, who have become great cronies. As
the former is the younger by many years, he is regarded as
quite a youthful blade by the general, who moreover looks

BACHELORS. 41

upon him as a man of great wit and prodigious acquirements.
I have already hinted that Master Simon is a family beau, and
considered rather a young fellow by all the elderly ladies of the
connexion; for an old bachelor, in an old family connexion, is
something like an actor in a regular dramatic corps, who seems
to " flourish in immortal youth," and will continue to play the
Romeos and Rangers for half a century together.

Master Simon, too, is a little of the chameleon, and takes a
different hue with every different companion : he is very atten-
tive and officious, and somewhat sentimental, with Lady Lilly-
craft ; copies out little namby-pamby ditties and love-songs for
her, and draws quivers, and doves, and darts, and Cupids, to
be worked on the corners of her pocket-handkerchiefs. He
indulges, however, in very considerable latitude with the other
married ladies of the family; and has many sly- pleasantries to
whisper to them, that provoke an equivocal laugh and a tap of
the fan. But when he gets among young company, such as
Frank Bracebridge, the Oxonian, and the general, he is apt to
put on the mad wag, and to talk in a very bachelor-like strain
about the sex.

In this he has been encouraged by the example of the general,
whom he looks up to as a man who has seen the world. The
general, in -fact, tells shocking stories after dinner, when the
ladies have retired, which he gives as some of the choice things
that are served up at the MuUigatawney club ; a knot of boon
companions in London. He also repeats the fat jokes of old
Major Pendergast, the wit of the club, and which, though the
general can hardly repeat them for laughing, always make
Mr. Bracebridge look grave, he having a great antipathy to an
indecent jest. In a word, the general is a complete instance of
the declension in gay life, by which a young man of pleasure is
apt to cool down into an obscene old gentleman.

I saw him and Master Simon, an evening or two since, con-
versing with a buxom milkmaid in a meadow ; and from their
elbowing each other now and then, and the general's shaking
his shoulders, blowing up his cheeks, and breaking out into a
short fit of irrepressible laughter, I had no doubt they were
playing the mischief with the girl.

As I looked at them through a hedge, I could not but think
they would have made a tolerable group for a modern picture
of Susannah and the two elders. It is true, the girl seemed in
nowise alarmed at the force of the enemy ; and I question, had
either of them been alone, whether she would not have been

42 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

more than they would have ventured to encounter. Such vete-
ran roysters are daring wags when together, and will put any
female to the blush with their jokes ; but they ai-e as quiet as
lambs when they fall singly into the clutches of a fine woman.

In spite of the general's years, he evidently is a little vain of
his person, and ambitious of conquests. I have observed him
on Sunday in church, eyeing the country girls most suspiciously ;
and have seen him leer upon them with a downright amorous
look, even when he has been gallanting Lady Lillycraft, with
great ceremony, through the church-yard. The general, in
fact, is a veteran in the service of Cupid, rather than of Mars,
having signalized himself in all the garrison towns and country
quarters, and seen service in every ball-room of England. Not
a celebrated beauty but he has laid siege to; and if his word
may be taken in a matter wherein no man is apt to be over-
veracious, it is incredible the success he has had with the fair.
At present he is like a worn-out warrior, retired from service ;
but who still cocks his beaver with a military air, and talks
stoutly of fighting whenever he comes within the smell of gun-
powder.

I have heard him speak his mind very freely over his bottle,
about the folly of the captain in taking a wife ; as he thinks a
young soldier should care for nothing but his " bottle and kind
landlady." But, in fact, he says the service on the continent
has had a sad effect upon the young men; they have been
ruined by light wines and French quadrilles. " They've noth-
ing," he says, "of the spirit of the old service. There are none
of your six-bottle men left, that were the souls of a mess dinner,
and used to play the very deuce among the women. "

As to a bachelor, the general affirms that he is a free and easy
man, with no baggage to take care of but his portmanteau ; but
a married man, with his wife hanging on his arm, always puts
him in mind of a chamber candlestick, with its extinguisher
hitched to it. I should not mind all this, if it were merely con-
fined to the general ; but I fear he will be the ruin of my friend,
Master Simon, who already begins to echo his heresies, and to
talk in the style of a gentleman that has seen life, and lived
upon the town. Indeed, the general seems to have taken
Master Simon in hand, and talks of showing him the lions
when he comes to town, and of introducing him to a knot of
choice spirits at the Mulligatawney club; which, I understand,
is composed of old nabobs, officers in the Company's employ, and
other "men of Ind," that have seen service in the East, and

WIVES. 43

returned home burnt out with curry, and touched with the
liver complaint. They have their regular club, where they eat
Mulligatawney soup, smoke the hookah, talk about Tippoo
Saib, Seringapatam, and tiger-hunting; and are tediously
agreeable in each other's company.

WIVES.

Believe me, man, there is no greater bliase

Than is the quiet joy of loving wife;

Which whoso wants, half of himselfe doth tnisse.

Friend without change, playfellow without strife,

Food without fulnesse, counsaile without pride,

Is this sweet doubling of our single life. — SIR P. SIDNEY.

THERE is so much talk about matrimony going on around me,
in consequence of the approaching event for which we are as-
sembled at the Hall, that I confess I find my thoughts singularly
exercised on the subject. Indeed, all the bachelors of the
establishment seem to be passing through a kind of fiery
ordeal ; for Lady Lillycraf t is one of those tender, romance-
read dames of the old school, whose mind is filled with flames
and darts, and who breathe nothing but constancy and wedlock.
She is for ever immersed in the concerns of the heart ; and, to
use a poetical phrase, is perfectly surrounded by ' ' the purple
light of love." The very general seems to feel the influence of
this sentimental atmosphere; to melt as he approaches her
ladyship, and, for the time, to forget all his heresies about
matrimony and the sex.

The good lady is generally surrounded by little documents of
her prevalent taste ; novels of a tender nature ; richly bound
little books of poetry, that are filled with sonnets and love
tales, and perfumed with rose-leaves ; and she has always an
album at hand, for which she claims the contributions of all
her friends. On looking over this last repository, the other
day, I found a series of poetical extracts, in the Squire's hand'
writing, which might have been intended as matrimonial hints
to his ward. I was so much struck with several of them, that
I took the liberty of copying them out. They are from the old
play of Thomas Davenport, published in 1661, entitled "The
City Night-Cap ;" in which is drawn out and exemplified, in
the part of Abstemia, the character of a patient and faithful

44 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

•wife, which, I think, might vie with that of the renowned
Griselda.

I have often thought it a pity that plays and novels should
always end at the wedding, and should not give us another act,
and another volume, to let us know how the hero and heroine
conducted themselves when married. Their mam object seems
to be merely to instruct young ladies how to get husbands, but
not how to keep them : now this last, I speak it with all due
diffidence, appears to me to be a desideratum in modern mar-
ried life. It is appalling to those who have not yet adventured
into the holy state, to see how soon the flame of romantic love
burns out, or rather is quenched in matrimony; and how
deplorably the passionate, poetic lover declines into the phleg-
matic, prosaic husband. I am inclined to attribute this very
much to the defect just mentioned in the plays and novels,
which form so important a branch of study of our young ladies;
and which teach them how to be heroines, but leave them
totally at a loss when they come to be wives. The play from
which the quotations before me were made, however, is an ex-
ception to this remark ; and I cannot refuse myself the pleasure
of adducing some of them for the benefit of the reader, and for
the honour of an old writer, who has bravely attempted to
awaken dramatic interest in favour of a woman, even after she
was married!

The f ollcwiug is a commendation of Abstemia to her husband
Lorenzo:

She's modest, but not sullen, and loves silence;

Not that she wants apt words, (for when she speaks,

She inflames love with wonder,) but because

She calls wise silence the soul's harmony.

She's truly chaste; yet such a foe to coyness,

The poorest call her courteous; and which is excellent!

(Though fair and young) she shuns to expose herself

To the opinion of strange eyes. She either seldom

Or never walks abroad but in your company,

And then with such sweet bashfulness, as if

She were venturing on crack'd ice, and takes delight

To step into the print your foot hath made.

And will follow you whole fields; so she will drive

Tediousness out of time, with her sweet character.

Notwithstanding all this excellence, Abstemia has the mis-
fortune to incur the unmerited jealousy of her husband. In-
stead, however, of resenting his harsh treatment with clamor-
ous upbraidings, and with the stormy violence of high, windy
virtue, by which the sparks of anger are so often blown into a

WIVES. 45

she endures it with the meekness of conscious, but
patient, virtue ; and makes the following beautiful appeal to a
friend who has witnessed her long suffering:

Hast thou not seen me

Bear all his injuries, as the ocean suffers

The angry bark to plough through her bosom,

And yet is presently so smooth, the eye

Cannot perceive where the wide wound was made?

Lorenzo, being wrought on by false representations, at length
repudiates her. To the last, however, she maintains her
patient sweetness, and her love for him, in spite of his cruelty.
She deplores his error, even more than his unkindness; and
laments the delusion which has turned his very affection into
a source of bitterness. There is a moving pathos in her parting
address to Lorenzo, after their divorce:

Farewell, Lorenzo,

Whom my soul doth love: if you e'er many,
May you meet a good wife; so good, that you
May not suspect her, nor may she be worthy
Of your suspicion ; and if you hear hereafter
That I am dead, inquire but my last words,
And you shall know that to the last I lov'd you.
And when you walk forth with your second choict*
Into the pleasant fields, and by chance talk of me,
Imagine that you see me, lean and pale,

Strewing your path with flowers.

But may she never live to pay my debts: (weept)

If but in thought she wrong you, may she die

In the conception of the injury.

Pray make me wealthy with one kiss: farewell, sir:

Let it not grieve you when you shall remember

That I was innocent: nor this forget,

Though innocence here suffer, sigh, and groan,

She walks but thorow thorns to find a throne.

In a short time Lorenzo discovers his error, and the inno-
cence of his injured wife. In the transports of his repentance,
he calls to mind all her feminine excellence ; her gentle, uncom-
plaining, womanly fortitude under wrongs and sorrows:

Oh, Abstemial

How lovely thou lookest now ! now thou appearesfc

Chaster than is the morning's modesty

That rises with a blush, over whose bosom

The western wind creeps softly; now I remember

How, when she sat at table, her obedient eye

Would dwell on mine, as if it were not well,

Unless it look'd where I look'd: oh how proud

She was, when she could cross herself to please met

But where now is this fair soul ? Like a silver cloud

She hath wept herself, I fear, into the dead sea.

And will be found no more,

4g BEACEEEIDOE HALL.

It is but doing right by the reader, if interested in the fate of
Abstemia by the preceding extracts, to say, that she was re-
stored to the arms and affections of her husband, rendered
fonder than ever, by that disposition hi every good heart, to
atone for past injustice, by an overflowing measure of return-
ing kindness :

Thou wealth, worth more than kingdoms; I am now

Confirmed past all suspicion ; thou art far

Sweeter in thy sincere truth than a sacrifice

Deck'd up for death with garlands. The Indian winds

That blow from off the coast and cheer the sailor

With the sweet savour of their spices, want

The delight flows In thee.

I have been more affected and interested by this little drama-
tic picture, than by many a popular love tale; though, as I
said before, I do not think it likely either Abstemia or patient
Grizzle stand much chance of being taken for a model. Still I
like to see poetry now and then extending its views beyond the
wedding-day, and teaching a lady how to make herself attrac-
tive even after marriage. There is no great need of enforcing
on an unmarried lady the necessity of being agreeable ; nor is
there any great art requisite in a youthful beauty to enable her
to please. Nature has multiplied attractions around her.
Youth is in itself attractive. The freshness of budding beauty
needs no foreign aid to set it off; it pleases merely because it is
fresh, and budding, and beautiful. But it is for the married
state that a woman needs the most instruction, and hi which
she should be most on her guard to maintain her powers of
pleasing. No woman can expect to be to her husband all that
he fancied her when he was a lover. Men are always doomed
to be duped, not so much by the arts of the sex, as by their own
imaginations. They are always wooing goddesses, and marry-
ing mere mortals. A woman should, therefore, ascertain what
was the charm that rendered her so fascinating when a girl,
and endeavour to keep it up when she has become a wife. One
great thing undoubtedly was, the chariness of herself and her
conduct, which an unmarried female always observes. She
should maintain the same niceness and reserve in her person
and habits, and endeavour still to preserve a freshness and
virgin delicacy in the eye of her husband. She should remem-
ber that the province of woman is to be wooed, not to woo ; to
be caressed, not to caress. Han is an ungrateful being hi love-,
bounty loses instead of winning him. The secret of a woman's
power does not consist so much in giving, as \n withholding.

STORY TELLING. 47

A woman may give up too much even to her husband. It is to
a thousand little delicacies of conduct that she must trust to
keep alive passion, and to protect herself from that dangerous
familiarity, that thorough acquaintance with every weakness
and imperfection incident to matrimony. By these means she
may still maintain her power, though she has surrendered her
person, and may continue the romance of love even beyond the
honeymoon.

"She that hath a wise husband," says Jeremy Taylor,
"must entice him to an eternal dearnesse by the veil of mod-
esty, and the grave robes of chastity, the ornament of meek-
ness, and the jewels of faith and charity. She must have no
painting but blushings ; her brightness must be purity, and she
must shine round about with sweetness and friendship; and
she shall be pleasant while she lives, and desired when she
dies.'

I have wandered into a rambling series of remarks on a trite
subject, an:' a dangerous one for a bachelor to meddle with.
That I may not, however, appear to confine my observations
entirely to the wife, I will conclude with another quotation
from Jeremy Taylor, in which the duties of both parties are
mentioned ; while I would recommend his sermon on the mar-
riage-ring to all those who, wiser than myself, are about
entering the happy state of wedlock.

"There is scarce any matter of duty but it concerns them
both alike, and is only distinguished by names, and hath its
variety by circumstances and little accidents : and what in one
is called love, in the other is called reverence ; and what in the
wife is obedience, the same in the man is duty. He provides,
and she dispenses ; he gives commandments, and she rules by
them ; he rules her by authority, and she rules him by love ;
she ought by all means to please him, and he must by no
means displease her."

STORY TELLING.

A FAVOURITE evening pastime at the Hall, and one which the
worthy Squire is fond of promoting, is story telling, "a good,
old-fashioned fire-side amusement," as he terms it. Indeed,
I believe he promotes it, chiefly, because it was one of the
choice recreations in those days of yore, when ladies and gen*

48 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

tleinen were not much in the habit of reading. Be this as it
may, he will often, at supper-table, when conversation flags,
call on some one or other of the company for a story, as it was
formerly the custom to call for a song; and it is edifying to see
the exemplary patience, and even satisfaction, with which the
good old gentleman will sit and listen to some hackneyed tale
that he has heard for at least a hundred times.

In this way, one evening, the current of anecdotes and stories
ran upon mysterious personages that have figured at different
times, and filled the world with doubt and conjecture ; such as
the Wandering Jew, the Man with the Iron Mask, who tor-
mented the curiosity of all Europe ; the Invisible Girl, and last,
though not least, the Pig-faced Lady.

At length, one of the company was called upon that had the
most unpromising physiognomy for a story teller, that ever
I had seen. He was a thin, pale, weazen-faced man, extremely
nervous, that had sat at one corner of the table, shrunk up, as
it were, into himself, and almost swallowed up in the cape of
his coat, as a turtle in its shell.

The very demand seemed to throw him into a nervons agita-
tion ; yet he did not refuse. He emerged his head out of his
shell, made a few odd grimaces and gesticulations, before he
could get his muscles into order, or his voice under command,
and then offered to give some account of a mysterious person-
age that he had recently encountered in the course of his trav-
els, and one whom he thought fully entitled to being classed
with the Man with the Iron Mask.

I was so much struck with his extraordinary narrative, that
I have written it out to the best of my recollection, for the
amusement of the reader. I think it has hi it all the elements
of that mysterious and romantic narrative, so greedily sought
after at the present day.

THE STOUT GENTLEMAN.

A STAGE-COACH ROMANCE.
" I'll cross it, though it blast me!"— Hamlet.

IT was a rainy Sunday, in the gloomy month of November.
E had been detained, in the course of a journey, by a slight
indisposition, from which I was recovering: but I was still

TEE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 49

feverish, and was obliged to keep within doors all day, in an inn
of the small town of Derby. A wet Sunday in a country inn !
— whoever has had the luck to experience one can alone judge
of my situation. The rain pattered against the casements ; the
bells tolled for church with a melancholy sound. I went to
the windows, in quest of something to amuse the eye ; but it
seemed as if I had been placed completely out of the reach of
all amusement. The windows of my bed-room looked out
among tiled roofs and stacks of chimneys, while those of my
sitting-room commanded a full view of the stable-yard. I
know of nothing more calculated to make a man sick of
this world, than a stable-yard on a rainy day. The place was
littered with wet straw, that had been kicked about by travel-
lers and stable-boys. In one corner was a stagnant pool of
water, surrounding an island of muck; there were several
half -drowned fowls crowded together under a cart, among
which was a miserable, crest-fallen cock, drenched out of all
lif e and spirit ; his drooping tail matted, as it were, into a sin-
gle feather, along which the water trickled from his back ; near
the cart was a half -dozing cow chewing the cud, and standing
patiently to be rained on, with wreaths of vapor rising from
her reeking hide ; a wall-eyed horse, tired of the loneliness of
the stable, was poking his spectral head out of the window,
with the rain dripping on it from the eaves ; an unhappy cur,
chained to a dog-house hard by, uttered something every now
and then, between a bark and a yelp; a drab of a kitchen-
wench tramped backwards and forwards through the yard in
pattens, looking as sulky as the weather itself ; every thing, in
short, was comfortless and forlorn, excepting a crew of hard-
drinking ducks, assembled like boon companions round a pud-
dle, and making a riotous noise over their liquor.

I was lonely and listless, and wanted amusement. My room
soon became insupportable. I abandoned it, and sought what
is technically called the travellers'-room. This is a public
room set apart at most inns for the accommodation of a class
of wayfarers called travellers, or riders ; a kind of commercial
knights-errant, who are incessantly scouring the kingdom in
gigs, on horseback, or by coach. They are the only successors
that I know of, at the present day, to the knights-errant of
yore. They lead the same kind of roving adventurous life, only
changing the lance for a driving- whip, the buckler for a pat-
tern-card, and the coat of mail for an upper Benjamin. Instead
of vindicating the charms of peerless beauty, they rove about.

50 BSACES RIDGE HALL.

spreading the fame and standing of some substantial trades-
man or manufacturer, and are ready at any time to bargain in
his name ; it being the fashion now-a-days to trade, instead of
fight, with one another. As the room of the hotel, in the good
old fighting times, would be hung round at night with the
armour of wayworn warriors, such as coats of mail, falchions,
and yawning helmets; so the travellers'-room is garnished
with the harnessing of their successors, with box-coats, whips
of all kinds, spurs, gaiters, and oil-cloth covered hats.

I was in hopes of finding some of these worthies to talk with,
but was disappointed. There were, indeed, two or three in the
room ; but I could make nothing of them. One was just fin-
ishing his breakfast, quarrelling with his bread and butter, and
huffing the waiter; another buttoned on a pair of gaiters, with
many execrations at Boots for not having cleaned his shoes
well; a third sat drumming on the table with Ins fingers, and
looking at the rain as it streamed down the window-glass ; they
all appeared infected by the weather, and disappeared, one
after the other, without exchanging a word.

I sauntered to the window, and stood gazing at the people
picking their way to church, with petticoats hoisted mid-l^g
high, and dripping umbrellas. The bell ceased to toll, and the
streets became silent. I then amused myself with watching
the daughters of a tradesman opposite ; who, being confined to
the house for fear of wetting their Sunday finery, played off
their charms at the front windows, to fascinate the chance
tenants of the inn. They at length were summoned away by a
vigilant vinegar-faced mother, and I had nothing further from
without to amuse me.

What was I to do to pass away the long-lived day? I was
sadly nervous and lonely ; and every thing about an inn seems
calculated to make a dull day ten times duller. Old news-
papers, smelling of beer and tobacco-smoke, and which I had
already read half-a-dozen times — good-for-nothing books, that
were worse than rainy weather. I bored myself to death with
an old volume of the Lady's Magazine. I read all the common-
placed names of ambitious travellers scrawled on the panes of
glass ; the eternal families of the Smiths, and the Browns, and
the Jacksons, and the Johnsons, and all the other sons ; and I
deciphered several scraps of fatiguing inn- window poetry whip'd
I have met with in all parts of the world.

The day continued lowering and gloomy; the slovenly,
ragged, spongy clouds drifted heavily alDng; there

THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 51

variety even in the rain: it was one dull, continued, monoto-
nous patter — patter — patter, excepting that now and then I was
enlivened by the idea of a brisk shov/er, from the rattling of
the drops upon a passing umbrella.

It was quite refreshing (if I may be allowed a hackneyed
phrase of the day) when, in the course of the morning, a horn
blew, and a stage-coach whirled through the street, with out-
side passengers stuck all over it, cowering under cotton um-
brellas, and seethed together, and reeking with the steams of
wet box-coats and upper Benjamins.

The sound brought out from their lurking-places a crew of
vagabond boys, and vagabond dogs, and the carroty-headed
hostler, and that nondescript animal ycleped Boots, and all the
other vagabond race that infest the purlieus of an inn ; but the
bustle was transient ; the coach again whirled on its way ; and
boy and dog, and hostler and Boots, all slunk back again to
their holes ; the street again became silent, and the rain con-
tinued to rain on. In fact, there was no hope of its clearing
up; the barometer pointed to rainy weather; mine hostess'
tortoise-shell cat sat by the fire washing her face, and rubbing
her paws over her ears ; and, on referring to the almanac, I
found a direful prediction stretching from the top of the page
to the bottom through the wh< He month, " expect — much — rain
— about — this — time. "

I was dreadfully hipped. The hours seemed as if they would
never creep by. The very ticking of the clock became irk-
some. At length the stillness of the house was interrupted by
the ringing of a bell. Shortly after, I heard the voice of a
waiter at the bar : ' ' The stout gentleman in No. 13 wants hia
breakfast. Tea and bread and butter with ham and eggs; the
eggs not to be too much done."

In such a situation as mine, every incident is of importance.
Here was a subject of speculation presented to my mind, and
ample exercise for my imagination. I am prone to paint pic-
tures to myself, and on this occasion I had some materials to
work upon. Had the guest up-stairs been mentioned as Mr.
Smith, or Mr. Brown, or Mr. Jackson, or Mr. Johnson, or
merely as "the gentleman in No. 13," it would have been a
perfect blank to me. I should have thought nothing of it ; but
"The stout gentleman !"— the very name had something in it
of the picturesque. It at once gave the size ; it embodied the
personage to my mind's eye, and my fancy did the rest.

He was stout, or, as some term it, lusty ; in all probability,

52 BHACEBETDGE BALL.

therefore, he was advanced in life, some people expanding as
they grow old. By his breakfasting rather late, and in his
own room, he must be a man accustomed to live at his ease,
and above the necessity of early rising ; no doubt a round, rosy,
lusty old gentleman.

There was another violent ringing. The stout gentleman
was impatient for his breakfast. He was evidently a man of
importance; "well-to-do in the world;" accustomed to be
promptly waited upon; of a keen appetite, and a little cross
when hungry; "perhaps," thought I, "he maybe some Lon-
don Alderman; or who knows but he may be a Member of
Parliament?"

The breakfast was sent up and there was a short interval of
silence; he was, doubtless, making the tea. Presently there
was a violent ringing, and before it could be answered, another
ringing still more violent. " Bless me ! what a choleric old
gentleman ! " The waiter came down in a huff. The butter
was rancid, the eggs were overdone, the ham was too salt : —
the stout gentleman was evidently nice in his eating ; one of
those who eat and growl, and keep the waiter on the trot, and
live in a state militant with the household.

The hostess got into a fume. I should observe that she was
a brisk, coquettish woman ; a little of a shrew, and something
of a slammerkin, but very pretty withal ; with a nincompoop
for a husband, as shrews are apt to have. She rated the ser-
vants roundly for their negligence in sending up so bad a
breakfast, but said not a word against the stout gentleman ; by
which I clearly perceived that he must be a man of conse-
quence, entitled to make a noise and to give trouble at a coun-
try inn. Other eggs, and ham, and bread and butter, were
sent up. They appeared to be more graciously received ; at
(east there was no further complaint.

I had not made many turns about the travellers'-room, when
there was another ringing. Shortly afterwards there was a
stir and an inquest about the house. The stout gentleman
wanted the Times or the Chronicle newspaper. I set him
down, therefore, for a whig ; or rather, from his being so ab-
solute and lordly where he had a chance, I suspected him of
being a radical. Hunt, I had heard, was a large man ; " who
knows," thought I, " but it is Hunt himself ! "

My curiosity began to be awakened. I inquired of the waiter
who was this stout gentleman that was making all this stir ;
but I could get no information : nobody seemed to know his

THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. . 53

name. The landlords of bustling inns seldom trouble their
J leads about the names or occupations of their transient guests.
The colour of a coat, the shape or size of the person, is enough to
suggest a travelling name. It is either the tall gentleman, or
the short gentleman, or the gentleman in black, or the gentle-
man in snuff-colour ; or, as in the present instance, the stout
gentleman. A designation of the kind once hit on answers
every purpose, and saves all further inquiry.

Rain — rain — rain ! pitiless, ceaseless rain ! No such thing as
putting a foot out of doors, and no occupation nor amusement
within. By and by I heard some one walking overhead. It
was in the stout gentleman's room. He evidently was a large
man, by the heaviness of his tread ; and an old man, from his
wearing such creaking soles. "He is doubtless," thought I,
" some rich old square-toes, of regular habits, and is now tak-
ing exercise after breakfast."

I now read all the advertisements of coaches and hotels that
were stuck about the mantel-piece. The Lady's Magazine had
become an abomination to me ; it was as tedious as the day it-
self. I wandered out, not knowing what to do, and ascended
again to my room. I had not been there long, when there was
a squall from a neighbouring bed-room. A door opened and
slammed violently ; a chamber-maid, that I had remarked for
having a ruddy, good-humoured face, went down-stairs in a
violent flurry. The stout gentleman had been rude to her.

This sent a whole host of my deductions to the deuce in a
moment. This unknown personage could not be an old gentle-
man ; for old gentlemen are not apt to be so obstreperous to
chamber-maids. He could not be a young gentleman; for
young gentlemen are not apt to inspire such indignation. He
must be a middle-aged man, and confounded ugly into the
bargain, or the girl would not have taken the matter in such
terrible dudgeon. I confess I was sorely puzzled.

In a few minutes I heard the voice of my landlady. I caught
a glance of her as she came tramping up-stairs; her face
glowing, her cap flaring, her tongue wagging the whole way.
' ' She'd have no such doings in her house, she'd warrant 1 If
gentlemen did spend money freely, it was no rule. She'd have
no servant maids of hers treated in that way, when they were
about their work, that's what she wouldn't 1"

As I hate squabbles, particularly with women, and above all
with pretty women, I slunk back into my room, and partly
closed the door; but my curiosity was too much, excited not to

54 BBACEBRIDGE HALL.

listen. The landlady marched intrepidly to the enemy's cita-
del, and entered it with a storm : the door closed after her. I
heard her voice in high windy clamour for a moment or two.
Then it gradually subsided, like a gust of wind in a garret;
then there was a laugh ; then I heard nothing more.

After a little while, my landlady came out with an odd smilo.
on her face, adjusting her cap, which was a little on one bide |
As she went down-stairs, I heard the landlord ask her what;
was the matter; she said, "Nothing at all, only the girl's a
fool. " — I was more than ever perplexed what to make of this
unaccountable personage, who could put a good-natured cham-
ber-maid in a passion, and send away a termagant landlady in
smiles. He could not be so old, nor cross, nor ugly either.

I had to go to work at his picture again, and to paint him
entirely different. I now set him down for one of those stout
gentlemen that are frequently met with, swaggering about the
doors of country inns. Moist, merry fellows, in Belcher hand-
kerchiefs, whose bulk is a little assisted by malt liquors. Men
who have seen the world, and been sworn at Highgate ; who
are used to tavern life ; up to all the tricks of tapsters, and
knowing in the ways of sinful publicans. Free-livers on a
small scale ; who are prodigal within the compass of a guinea ;
who call all the waiters by name, touzle the maids, gossip with
the landlady at the bar, and prose over a pint of port, or a
glass of negus, after dinner.

The morning wore away in forming of these and similar
surmises. As fast as I wove one system of belief, some move-
ment of the unknown would completely overturn it, and throw
all my thoughts again into confusion. Such are the solitary
operations of a feverish mind. I was, as I have said, extremely
nervous; and the continual meditation on the concerns of this
invisible personage began to have its effect : — I was getting a
fit of the fidgets. \

Dinner-time came. I hoped the stout gentleman might dine
in the travellers'-room, and that I might at length get a view
of his person ; but no— he had dinner served in his own room.
What could be the meaning of this solitude and mystery? He
could not be a radical ; there was something too aristocratical
in thus keeping himself apart from the rest of the world, and
condemning himself to his own dull company throughout a
rainy day. And then, too, he lived too well for a discontented
politician. He seemed to expatiate on a variety of dishes, and
to sit over his wine like a jolly fiiend of good living. Indeed,

THE STOUT GENTLEMAN. 55

my doubts on this head were soon at an end ; for he could not
have finished his first bottle before I could faintly hear him
humming a tune ; and on listening, I found it to be "God save
the King." 'Twas plain, then, he was no radical, but a faith-
ful subject; one that grew loyal over his bottle, and was ready
to stand by king and constitution, when he could stand by
nothing else. But who could he be? My conjectures began to
jrun wild. Was he not some personage of distinction, travel-
ling incog. ? " God knows !" said I, at my wit's end ; " it may
be one of the royal family for aught I know, for they are all
Btout gentlemen !"

The weather continued rainy. The mysterious unknown
kept his room, and, as far as I could judge, his chair, for I did
not hear him move. In the meantime, as the day advanced,
the travellers'-room began to be frequented. Some, who had
just arrived, came in buttoned up in box-coats; others came
home, who had been dispersed about the town. Some took
their dinners, and some their tea. Had I been in a different
mood, I should have found entertainment in studying this
peculiar class of men. There were two especially, who were
regular wags of the road, and up to all the standing jokes of
travellers. They had a thousand sly things to say to the wait-
ing-maid, whom they called Louisa, and Ethelinda, and a dozen
other fine names, changing the name every time, and chuckling
amazingly at their own waggery. My mind, however, had
become completely engrossed by the stout gentleman. He had
kept my fancy in chase during a long day, and it was not now
to be diverted from the scent.

The evening gradually wore away. The travellers read the
papers two or three times over. Some drew round the fire,
and told long stories about their horses, about their adventures,
their overturns, and breakings down. They discussed the cred-
its of different merchants and different inns ; and the two wags
told several choice anecdotes of pretty chamber-maids, and kind
landladies. All this passed as they were quietly taking what
they called their night-caps, that is to say, strong glasses of
brandy and water and sugar, or some other mixture of the
kind; after which they one after another rang for "Boots"
and the chamber-maid, and walked off to bed in old shoes cut
down into marvellously uncomfortable slippers.

There was only one man left; a short-legged, long-bodied,
plethoric fellow, with a very large, sandy head. He sat by
himself, with a glass of port wine negus, and a spoon ; sipping

56 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

and stirring, and meditating and sipping, until nothing
left but the spoon. He gradually fell asleep bolt upright in his
chair, with the empty glass standing before him ; and the can-
dle seemed to fall asleep too, for the wick grew long, and black,
and cabbaged at the end, and dimmed the little light that re-
mained in the chamber. The gloom that now prevailed was
contagious. Around hung the shapeless, and almost spectral,
box-coats of departed travellers, long since buried in deep
sleep. I only heard the ticking of the clock, with the deep-
drawn breathings of the sleeping topers, and the drippings of
the rain, drop — drop — drop, from the eaves of the house. The
church-bells chimed midnight. All at once the stout gentle-
man began to walk overhead, pacing slowly backwards and
forwards. There was something extremely awful in all this,
especially to one in my state of nerves. These ghastly great-
coats, these guttural breathings, and the creaking footsteps of
this mysterious being. His steps grew fainter and fainter, and
at length died away. I could bear it no longer. I was wound
up to the desperation of a hero of romance. "Be he who or
what he may," said I to myself, "I'll have a sight of him!" I
seized a chamber candle, and hurried up to number 13. The
door stood ajar. I hesitated — I entered : the room was desert-
ed. There stood a large, broad-bottomed elbow chair at a table,
on which was an empty tumbler, and a "Times" newspaper,
and the room smelt powerfully of Stilton cheese.

The mysterious stranger had evidently but just retired. I
turned off, sorely disappointed, to my room, which had been
changed to the front of the house. As I went along the corri-
dor, I saw a large pair of boots, with dirty, waxed tops, stand-
ing at the door of a bed-chamber. They doubtless belonged to
the unknown ; but it would not do to disturb so redoubtable a
personage in his den ; he might discharge a pistol, or something
worse, at my head. I went to bed, therefore, and lay awako
half the night in a terrible nervous state ; and even when I fell
asleep, I was still haunted in my dreams by the idea of the
stout gentleman and his wax-topped boots.

I slept rather late the next morning, and was awakened by
some stir and bustle in the house, which I could not at first
comprehend; until getting more awake, I found there was a
mail-coach starting from the door. Suddenly there was a cry
from below, " The gentleman has forgot his umbrella! look for
the gentleman's umbrella in No. 13!" I heard an immediate
scampering of a chamber-maid along the passage, and a shrill

FOREST TREES. 57

reply as she ran, "Here it is! here's the gentleman's um-
brella !"

The mysterious stranger then was on the point of setting off.
This was the only chance I should ever have of knowing him.
I sprang out of bed, scrambled to the window, snatched aside
the curtains, and just caught a glimpse of the rear of a person
getting in at the coach-door. The skirts of a brown coat parted
behind, and gave me a full view of the broad disk of a pair of
drab breeches. The door closed — "all right!" was the word —
the coach whirled off: — and that was all I ever saw of the stout
gentleman !

FOREST TREES.

" A living gallery of aged trees."

ONE of the favourite themes of boasting with the Squire, ia
the noble trees on his estate, which, in truth, has some of the
finest that I have seen in England. There is something august
and solemn in the great avenues of stately oaks that gather
their branches together high in air, and seem to reduce the
pedestrians beneath them to mere pigmies. "An avenue of
oaks or elms," the Squire observes, "is the true colonnade that
should lead to a gentleman's house. As to stone and marble,
any one can rear them at once— they are the work of the day;
but commend me to the colonnades that have grown old and
great with the family,' and tell by their grandeur how long the
family has endured."

The Squire has great reverence for certain venerable trees,
gray with moss, which he considers as the ancient nobility of his
domain. There is the ruin of an enormous oak, which has been .
so much battered by time and tempest, that scarce any thing
is left ; though he says Christy recollects when, in his boyhood,
it was healthy and flourishing, until it was struck by lightning.
It is now a mere trunk, with one twisted bough stretching up
into the air, leaving a green branch at the end of it. This
sturdy wreck is much valued by the Squire; he calls it his
standard-bearer, and compares it to a veteran warrior beaten
down in battle, but bearing up his banner to the last. He has
actually had a fence built round it, to protect it as much as
possible from further injury.

58 BRACEBR1DGE HALL.

It is with great difficulty that the Squire can ever be brought
to have any tree cut down on his estate. To some he looks
with reverence, as having been planted by his ancestors; to
others with a kind of paternal affection, as having been planted
by himself; and he feels a degree of awe in bringing down,
with a few strokes of the axe, what it has cost centuries to
build up. I confess I cannot but sympathize, in some degree,
with the good Squire on the subject. Though brought up in a
country overrun with forests, where trees are apt to be consid-
ered mere encumbrances, and to be laid low without hesitation
or remorse, yet I could never see a fine tree hewn down without
concern. The poets, who are naturally lovers of trees, as they
are of every thing that is beautiful, have artfully awakened
great interest in their favour, by representing them as the habi-
tations of sylvan deities ; insomuch that every great tree had its
tutelar genius, or a nymph, whose existence was limited to its
duration. Evelyn, in his Sylva, makes several pleasing and
fanciful allusions to this superstition. "As the fall," says he,
"of a very aged oak, giving a crack like thunder, has often
been heard at many miles' distance; constrained though I
often am to fell them with reluctancy, I do not at any tune re-
member to have heard the groans of those nymphs (grieving to
be dispossessed of their ancient habitations) without some
emotion and pity." And again, in alluding to a violent storm
that had devastated the woodlands, he says, "Methinks I still
hear, sure I am that I still feel, the dismal groans of our
forests ; the late dreadful hurricane having subverted so many
thousands of goodly oaks, prostrating the trees, laying them in
ghnstly postures, like whole regiments fallen in battle by the
sword of the conqueror, and crushing all that grew beneath
them. The public accounts," he adds, "reckon no less than
three thousand brave oaks in one part only of the forest of
Dean blown down."

I have paused more than once in the wilderness of America,
to contemplate the traces of some blast of wind, which seemed
to have rushed down from the clouds, and ripped its way
through the bosom of the woodlands; rooting up, shivering,
and splintering the stoutest trees, and leaving a long track of
desolation. There was something awful in the vast havoc made
among these gigantic plants; and in considering their magnifi-
cent remains, so rudely torn and mangled, and hurled down to
perish prematurely on their native soil, I was conscious of a
strong movement of the sympathy so feelingly expressed by

FOREST TEEE8. 59

I recollect, also, hearing a traveller of poetical tem-
perament expressing the kind of horror which he felt on be-
holding on the banks of the Missouri, an oak of prodigious size,
which had been, in a manner, overpowered by an enormous
wild grape-vine. The vine had clasped its huge folds round the
trunk, and from thence had wound about every branch and
twig, until the mighty tree had withered in its embrace. It
eeemed like Laocoon struggling ineffectually in the hideous
coils of the monster Python. It was the liou of trees perishing
in the embraces of a vegetable boa.

I am fond of listening to the conversation of English gentle-
men on rural concerns, and of noticing with what taste and
discrimination, and what strong, unaffected interest they will
discuss topics, which, in other countries, are abandoned to
mere woodmen, or rustic cultivators. I have heard a noble
earl descant on park and forest sceneiy with the science and
feeling of a painter. He dwelt on the shape and beauty of par-
ticular trees on his estate, with as much pride and technical
precision as though he had been discussing the merits of statues
in his collection. I found that he had even gone considerable
distances to examine trees which were celebrated among rural
amateurs ; for it seems that trees, like horses, have their estab-
lished points of excellence ; and that there are some in England
which enjoy very extensive celebrity among tree-fanciers, from
being perfect in their kind.

There is something nobly simple and pure in such a taste :
it argues, I think, a sweet and generous nature, to have this
strong relish for the beauties of vegetation, and this friend-
ship for the hardy and glorious sons of the forest. There is
a grandeur of thought connected with this part of rural econ-
omy. It is, if I may be allowed the figure, the heroic line of
husbandry. It is worthy of liberal, and free-born, and aspiring
men. He who plants an oak, looks forward to future ages,
and plants for posterity. Nothing can be less selfish than this.
He cannot expect to sit in its shade, nor enjoy its shelter ; but
he exults in the idea that the acorn which he has buried in the
earth shall grow up into a lofty pile, and shall keep on flour-
ishing, and increasing, and benefiting mankind, long after he
shall have ceased to tread his paternal fields. Indeed, it is the
nature of such occupations to lift the thoughts above mere
worldliness. As the leaves of trees are said to absorb all nox-
ious qualities of the air, and to breathe forth a purer atmosphere,
so it seems to me as if they drew from us all sordid and angry

60 BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

passions, and breathed forth peace and philanthropy. There is
a serene and settled majesty in woodland scenery, that enters
into the soul, and dilates and elevates it, and fills it with noble
inclinations. The ancient and hereditary groves, too, that
embower this island, are most of them full of story. They
are haunted by the recollections of great spirits of past ages,
who have sought for relaxation among them from the tumult
of arms, or the toils of state, or have wooed the muse beneath
their shade. Who can walk, with soul unmoved, among the
stately groves of Penshurst, where the gallant, the amiable,
the elegant Sir Philip Sidney passed his boyhood ; or con look
without fondness upon the tree that is said to have been
planted on his birthday; or can ramble among the classic
bowers of Hagley ; or can pause among the solitudes of Wind-
sor Forest, and look at the oaks around, huge, gray, and time-
worn, like the old castle towers, and not feel as if he were sur-
rounded by so many monuments of long-enduring glory? It is,
when viewed in this light, that planted groves, and stately
avenues, and cultivated parks, have an advantage over the
more luxuriant beauties of unassisted nature. It is that they
teem with moral associations, and keep up the ever-interesting
Btory of human existence.

It is incumbent, then, on the high and generous spirits of an
ancient nation, to cherish these sacred groves that surround
their ancestral mansions, and to perpetuate them to their de-
scendants. Republican as I am by birth, and brought up as I
have been in republican principles and habits, I can feel noth-
ing of the servile reverence for titled rank, merely because it
is titled ; but I trust that I am neither churl nor bigot in my
creed. I can both see and feel how hereditary distinction,
when it falls to the lot of a generous mind, may elevate that
mind into true nobility. It is one of the effects of hereditary
rank, when it falls thus happily, that it multiplies the duties,
and, as it were, extends the existence of the possessor. He
does not feel himself a mere individual link in creation, respon-
sible only for his own brief term of being. He carries back his
existence in proud recollection, and he extends it forward in
honourable anticipation. He lives with his ancestry, and he
lives with his posterity. To both does he consider himself
involved in deep responsibilities. As he has received much
from those that have gone before, so he feels bound to trans-
mit much to those who are to come after him. His domestic
undertakings seem to imply a longer existence than those of

A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 61

ordinary men ; none are so apt to build and plant for future
centuries, as noble-spirited men, who have received their
heritages from foregone ages.

I cannot but applaud, therefore, the fondness and pride
with which I have noticed English gentlemen, of generous
temperaments, and high aristocratic feelings, contemplating
those magnificent trees, which rise like towers and pyramids,
from the midst of their paternal lands. There is an affinity
between all nature, animate and inanimate: the oak, in the
pride and lustihood of its growth, seems to me to take its
range with the lion and the eagle, and to assimilate, in the
grandeur of its attributes, to heroic and intellectual man. With
its mighty pillar rising straight and direct towards heaven,
bearing up its leafy honours from the impurities of earth, and
supporting them aloft in free air and glorious sunshine, it is an
emblem of what a true nobleman should be; a refuge for the
weak, a shelter for the oppressed, a defence for the defence-
less ; warding off from them the peltings of the storm, or the
scorching rays of arbitrary power. He who is this, is an orna-
ment and a blessing to his native land. He who is otherwise,
abuses his eminent advantages; abuses the grandeur and
prosperity which he has drawn from the bosom of his country.
Should tempests arise, and he be laid prostrate by the storm,
who would mourn over his fall? Should he be borne down by
the oppressive hand of power, who would murmur at his
fate?— " Why cumbereth he the ground?"

A LITEEARY ANTIQUARY.

Printed bookes he contemnes, as a novelty of this latter age ; but a manuscript he
pores on everlastingly; especially if the cover be all moth-eaten, and the dust make
a parenthesis betweene every syllable. — Mico-Cosmographie, 1628.

THE Squire receives great sympathy and support, in his anti-
quated humours, from the parson, of whom I made some men-
tion on my former visit to the Hall, and who acts as a kind of
family chaplain. He has been cherished by the Squire almost
constantly, since the time that they were fellow-students at
Oxford ; for it is one of the peculiar advantages of these great
universities, that they often link the poor scholar to the rich
patron, by early and heart-felt ties, that last through life, with-

62 BRACKBKIDGE HALL.

out the usual humiliations of dependence and patronage. Under
the fostering protection of the Squire, therefore, the little par-
son has pursued his studies in peace. Having lived almost
entirely among books, and those, too, old books, he is quite
ignorant of the world, and his mind is as antiquated as the
garden at the Hall, where the flowers are all arranged in formal
beds, and the yew-trees clipped into urns and peacocks.

His taste for literary antiquities was first imbibed in the
Bodleian Library at Oxford ; where, when a student, he passed
many an hour foraging among the old manuscripts. He has
since, at different times, visited most of the curious libraries in
England, and has ransacked many of the cathedrals. With all
his quaint and curious learning, he has nothing of arrogance or
pedantry; but that unaffected earnestness and guileless sim-
plicity which seem to belong to the literary antiquary.

He is a dark, mouldy little man, and rather dry in his manner ;
yet, on his favourite theme, he kindles up, and at times is even
eloquent. No fox-hunter, recounting his last day's sport, could
be more animated than I have seen the worthy parson, when
relating his search after a curious document, which he had
traced from library to library, until he fairly unearthed it in
the dusty chapter-house of a cathedral. When, too, he describes
some venerable manuscript, with its rich illuminations, its thick
creamy vellum, its glossy ink, and the odour of the cloisters that
seemed to exhale from it, he rivals the enthusiasm of a Parisian
epicure, expatiating on the merits of a Perigord pie, or a Pattt
de Strasbourg.

His brain seems absolutely haunted with love-sick dreams
about gorgeous old works in "silk linings, triple gold bands,
and tinted leather, locked up in wire cases, and secured from
the vulgar hands of the mere reader;" and, to continue the
happy expressions of an ingenious writer, "dazzling one's eyes
like eastern beauties, peering through their jealousies." *

He has a great desire, however, to read such works in the old
libraries and chapter-houses to which they belong; for he
thinks a black-letter volume reads best in one of those venera-
ble chambers where the light ^struggles through dusty lancet
windows and painted glass ; and that it loses half its zest, if
taken away from the neighbourhood of the quaintly-carved
oaken book-case and Gothic reading-desk. At his suggestion,
the Squire has had the library furnished in this antique taste,

* D'Israeli— Curiosities of Literature.

A LITERARY ANTIQUARY. 63

and several of the windows glazed with painted glass, that they
may throw a properly tempered light upon the pages of their
favourite old authors.

The parson, I am told, has been for some time meditating a
commentary on Strutt, Brand, and Douce, in which he means
to detect them in sundry dangerous errors in respect to popular
games and superstitions ; a work to which the Squire looks f o. -.
ward with great interest. He is, also, a casual contributor to
that long-established repository of national customs and antiq-
uities, the Gentleman's Magazine, and is one of those that every
now and then make an inquiry concerning some obsolete cus-
tom or rare legend ; nay, it is said that several of his commun-
ications have been at least six inches in length. He frequently
receives parcels by coach from different parts of the kingdom,
containing mouldy volumes and almost illegible manuscripts ;
for it is singular what an active correspondence is kept up
among literary antiquaries, and how soon the fame of any rare
volume, or unique copy, just discovered among the rubbish
of a library, is circulated among them. The parson is more
busy than common just now, being a little flurried by an ad-
vertisement of a work, said to be preparing for the press, on
the mythology of the middle ages. The little man has long
been gathering together all the hobgoblin tales he could collect,
illustrative of the superstitions of former times ; and he is in
a complete fever lest this formidable rival should take the
field before him,

Shortly after my arrival at the Hall, I called at the parson-
age, in company with Mr. Bracebridge and the general. The
parson had not been seen for several days, which was a matter
of some surprise, as he was an almost daily visitor at the Hall.
We found him in his study ; a small dusky chamber, lighted by
a lattice window that looked into the church-yard, and was •
overshadowed by a yew-tree. His chair was surrounded by
folios and quartos, piled upon the floor, and his table was cov-
ered with books and manuscripts. The cause of his seclusion
was a work which he had recently received, and with which
he had retired in rapture from the world, and shut himself up
to enjoy a literary honeymoon undisturbed. Never did board-
ing-school girl devour the pages of a sentimental novel, or Don
Quixote a chivalrous romance, with more intense delight than
did the little man banquet on the pages of this delicious work.
It was Dibdin's Bibliographical Tour ; a work calculated to have
as intoxicating an effect on the imaginations of literary anti-

64 BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

quaries, as the adventures of the heroes of the round table, on
all true knights ; or the tales of the early American voyagers
on the ardent spirits of the age, filling them with dreams of
Mexican and Peruvian mines, and of the golden realm of El
Dorado.

The good parson had looked forward to this bibliographical
expedition as of far greater importance than those to Africa or
the North Pole. With what eagerness had he seized upon the
history of the enterprise ! with what interest had he followed
the redoubtable bibliographer and his graphical squire in their
adventurous roamings among Norman castles, and cathedrals,
and French libraries, and German convents and universities;
penetrating into the prison-houses of vellum manuscripts, and
exquisitely illuminated missals, and revealing their beauties to
the world I

When the parson had finished a rapturous eulogy on this
most curious and entertaining work, he drew forth from a little
drawer a manuscript lately received from a correspondent,
which had perplexed him sadly. It was written in Norman
French, in very ancient dim arters, and so faded and mouldered
away as to be almost illegible. It was apparently an old Norman
drinking song, that might have been brought over by one of
William the Conqueror's carousing followers. The writing Avas
just legible enough to keep a keen antiquity -hunter on a doubt-
ful chase ; here and there he would be completely thrown out,
and then there would be a few words so plainly written as to
put him on the scent again. In this way he had been led on
for a whole day, until he had found himself completely at
fault.

The Squire endeavoured to assist him, but was equally baffled.
The old general listened for some time to the discussion, and
then asked the parson if he had read Captain Morris's, or
George Stevens's, or Anacreon Moore's bacchanalian songs?
On the other replying in the negative, "Oh, then," said the
general, with a sagacious nod, " if you want a drinking song,
I can furnish you with the latest collection — I did not know
you had a turn for those kind of things ; and I can lend you
the Encyclopedia of Wit into the bargain. I never travel with-
out them; they're excellent reading at an inn."

It would not be easy to describe the odd look of surprise and
perplexity of the parson, at this proposal ; or the difficulty the
Squire had in making the general comprehend, that though a
jovial song of the present day was but a foolish sound in tUe

A LITERART ANTIQUART. 05

&irs of wisdom, and beneath the notice of a learned man, jet a
trowl, written by a tosspot several hundred years since, was a
matter worthy of the gravest research, and enough to set
whole colleges by the ears.

I have since pondered much on this matter, and have
figured to myself what may be the fate of our current litera-
ture, when retrieved, piecemeal, by future antiquaries, from,
among the rubbish of ages. What a Magnus Apollo, for
instance, will Moore become, among sober divines and dusty
schoolmen! Even his festive and amatory songs, which are
now the mere quickeners of our social moments, or the delights
of our drawing-rooms, will then become matters of laborious
research and painful collation. How many a grave professor
will then waste his midnight oil, or worry his brain through a
long morning, endeavouring to restore the pure text, or illus-
trate the biographical hints of ' ' Come, tell me, says Rosa, as
kissing and kissed ;" and how many an arid old bookworm, like
the worthy little parson, will give up in despair, after vainly
striving to fill up some fatal hiatus in " Fanny of Timmol" !

Nor is it merely such exquisite authors as Moore that are
doomed to consume the oil of future antiquaries. Many a poor
scribbler, who is now, apparently, sent to oblivion by pastry-
cooks and cheese-mongers, will then rise again in fragments,
and flourish in learned immortality.

After all, thought I, time is not such an invariable destroyer
as he is represented. If he pulls down, he likewise builds up ;
if he impoverishes one, he enriches another ; his very dilapida-
tions furnish matter for new works of controversy, and his
rust is more precious than the most costly gilding. Under his
plastic hand, trifles rise into importance ; the nonsense of one
age becomes the wisdom of another ; the levity of the wit gravi-
tates into the learning of the pedant, and an ancient farthing
moulders into infinitely more value than a modern guinea.

BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

THE FARM-HOUSE.

" Love and hay

Are thick sown, but come up full of thistles."

—BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

I WAS so much pleased with the anecdotes which were t« : i
me of Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, that I got Master Simon, a
day or two since, to take me to his house. It was an oM-
fashioned farm-house built with brick, with curiously twisted
chimneys. It stood at a little distance from the road, with a
southern exposure, looking upon a soft green slope of meadow.
There was a small garden in front, with a row of bee-hives
humming among beds of sweet herbs and flowers. Well-
Bcoured milking tubs, with bright copper hoops, hung on the
garden paling. Fruit trees were trained up against the cottage,
and pots of flowers stood in the windows. A fat, superannuated
mastiff lay in the sunshine at the door; with a sleek cat sleep-
ing peacefully across him.

Mr. Tibbets was from home at the time of our calling, but we
were received with hearty and homely welcome by his wife ; a
notable, motherly woman, and a complete pattern for wives ;
since, according to Master Simon's account, she never contra-
dicts honest Jack, and yet manages to have her own way, and
to control him in every thing.

She received us in the main room of the honso. a kind of
parlour and hall, with great brown beams of timber across it,
which Mr. Tibbets is apt to point out with some exultation,
observing, that they don't put such timber in houses now-a-
days. The furniture was old-fashion rd, strong, and highly
jpolished ; the walls were hung with coloured prints of the story
of the Prodigal Son, who was represented in a red coat and
leather breeches. Over the fire-plar-e was a blunderbuss, and
a hard-favoured likeness of Ready-Money Jack, takon when he
•was a young man, by the same artist that painted the tavera
sign; his mother having taken a notion that the Tibbets' had
as much right to have a gallery of family portraits as the folks
at the Hall.

The good dame pressed us very much to take «ome refresh
ment, and tempted us with a variety of lions* -hold dainties, so
that we were glad to compound by tasting soino of her home-
made wines. While we were there, the son and heir-apparent

-THE FAUN HOUSE. 67

cmme home ; a good-looking young fellow, and something of a
rustic beau. He took us over the premises,, and showed us the
whole establishment. An air of homely but substantial plenty
prevailed throughout ; every thing was of the best materials,
and in the best condition. Nothing was out of place, or ill
made ; and you saw every where the signs of a man that took
care to have the worth of his money, and that paid as he went.

The farm-yard was well stocked ; under a shed was a taxed
cart, in trim order, in which Ready-Money Jack took his wife
about the country. His well-fed horse neighed from the stable,
and when led out into the yard, to use the words of young
Jack, "he shone like a bottle;" for he said the old man made
it a rule that every thing about him should fare as well as he
did himself.

I was pleased to see the pride which the young fellow seemed
to have of his father. He gave us several particulars concern-
ing his habits, which were pretty much to the effect of those I
have already mentioned. He had never suffered an account to
stand in his life, always providing the money before he pur-
chased any thing ; and, if possible, paying in gold and silver.
He had a great dislike to paper money, and seldom went with-
out a considerable sum in gold about him. On my observing
that it was a wonder he had never been waylaid and robbed,
the young fellow smiled at the idea of any one venturing upon
such an exploit, for I believe he thinks the old man would be a
match for Robin Hood and all his gang.

I have noticed that Master Simon seldom goes into any house
without having a world of private talk with some one or other
of the family, being a kind of universal counsellor and confi-
dant. We had not been long at the farm, before the old dame
got him into a corner of her parlour, where they had a long,
whispering conference together ; in which I saw, by his shrugs,
that there were some dubious matters discussed, and by his
nods that he agreed with every thing she said.

After we had come out, the young man accompanied us a
little distance, and then, drawing Master Simon aside into a
green lane, they walked and talked together for nearly half an
hour. Master Simon, who has the usual propensity of confi-
dants to blab every thing to the next friend they meet with,
let me know that there was a love affair in question ; the young
fellow having been smitten with the charms of Phoebe Wilkins,
the pretty niece of the housekeeper at the Hall. Like most
Other love concerns, it had brought its troubles and perplexi-

6g BRACEBRWGR HALL.

ties. Dame Tibbets had long been on intimate, gossiping terms
with the housekeeper, who often visited the farm-house; but
when the neighbours spoke to her of the likelihood of a match
between her son and Phoebe Wilkins, "Marry come up!" she
scouted the very idea. The girl had acted as lady's maid ; and
it was beneath the blood of the Tibbets', who had li ved on their
own lands time out of mind, and owed reverence and thanks to
nobody, to have the heir-apparent marry a servant !

These vapourings had faithfully been carried to the house-
keeper's ear, by one of their mutual go-between friends. The
old housekeeper's blood, if not as ancient, was as quick as tliat
of Dame Tibbets. She had been accustomed to carry a high
head at the Hall, and among the villagers; and her faded
brocade rustled with indignation at the slight cast upon her
alliance by the wife of a petty farmer. She maintained that
her niece had been a companion rather than a waiting-maid to
the young ladies. "Thank heavens, she was not obliged to
work for her living, and was as idle as any young lady in the
land ; and when somebody died, would receive something that
would be worth the notice of some folks, with all their ready
money."

A bitter feud had thus taken place between the two worthy
dames, and the young people were forbidden to think of one
another. As to young Jack, he was too much in love to reason
upon the matter ; and being a little heady, and not standing in
much awe of his mother, was ready to sacrifice the whole
dignity of the Tibbets' to his passion. He had lately, however,
had a violent quarrel with his mistress, in consequence of some
coquetry on her part, and at present stood aloof. The politic
mother was exerting all her ingenuity to widen the accidental
breach; but, as is most commonly the case, the more she med-
dled with this perverse inclination of the son, the stronger it
grew. In the meantime, old Eeady-Money was kept completely
in the dark ; both parties were in awe and uncertainty as to
what might be his way of taking the matter, and dreaded to
awaken the sleeping lion. Between father and son, therefore,
the worthy Mrs. Tibbets was full of business, and at her wit's
end. It is true there was no great danger of honest Ready-
Money's finding the thing out, if left to himself ; for he was of
a most unsuspicious temper, and by no means quick of appre-
hension ; but there was daily risk of his attention being aroused,
by the cobwebs which his indefatigable wife was continually
spinning about his nose.

HORSEMANSHIP. 69

Such is the distracted state of politics, in the domestic empire
of Beady-Money Jack; which only shows the intrigues and
internal dangers to which the best-regulated governments are
liable. In this perplexed situation of their affairs, both mother
and son have applied to Master Simon for counsel ; and, with
all his experience in meddling with other people's concerns, he
finds it an exceedingly difficult part to play, to agree with both
parties, seeing that their opinions and wishes are so diametri-
cally opposite.

HORSEMANSHIP.

A coach was a strange monster in those days, and the sight put both horse and
man into amazement. Some said it was a great crabshell brought out of China, and
some imagined it to be one of the pagan temples, in which the canibals adored the
divell. — TAYLOR, THE WATER POET.

I HAVE made casual mention, more than once, of one of the
Squire's antiquated retainers, old Christy, the huntsman. I
find that his crabbed humour is a source of much entertainment
among the young men of the family ; the Oxonian, particularly,
takes a mischievous pleasure, now and then, in slyly rubbing
the old man against the grain, and then smoothing him down
again ; for the old fellow is as ready to bristle up his back as a
porcupine. He rides a venerable hunter called Pepper, which
is a counterpart of himself, a heady cross-grained animal, that
frets the flesh off its bones ; bites, kicks, and plays all manner
of villainous tricks. He is as tough, and nearly as old as his
rider, who has ridden him time out of mind, and is, indeed,
the only one that can do any thing with him. Sometimes,
however, they have a complete quarrel, and a dispute for
mastery, and then, I am told, jt is as good as a farce to see the
heat they both get into, and the wrong-headed contest that
ensues ; for they are quite knowing in each other's ways, and
in the art of teasing and fretting each other. Notwithstanding
these doughty brawls, however, there is nothing that nettles
old Christy sooner than to question the merits of the horse;
which he upholds as tenaciously as a faithful husband will
vindicate the virtues of the termagant spouse, that gives bim a
curtain lecture every night of his life.

The young men call old Christy their "professor of equita-
tion ;" and in accounting for the appellation, they let me into

70 BRACEBEIDGE HALL.

some particulars of the Squire's mode of bringing up his chil-
dren. There is an odd mixture of eccentricity and good sense
in all the opinions of my worthy host. His mind is like mod-
ern Gothic, where plain brick-work is set off with pointed
arches and quaint tracery. Though the main ground-work of
his opinions is correct, yet he has a thousand little notions,
picked up from old books, which stand out whimsically on the
surface of his mind.

Thus, in educating his boys, he chose Peachem, Markam, and
such like old English writers, for his manuals. At an early
age he took the lads out of their mother's hands, who was dis-
posed, as mothers are apt to be, to make fine, orderly children
of them, that should keep out of sun and rain and never soil
their hands, nor tear their clothes.

In place of this, the Squire turned them loose to run free and
wild about the park, without heeding wind or weather. He
was, also, particularly attentive in making them bold and ex-
pert horsemen; and these were the days when old Christy,
the huntsman, enjoyed great importance, as the lads were put
under his care to practise them at the leaping-bars, and to keep
an eye upon them in the chase.

The Squire always objected to their riding in carriages of any
kind, and is still a little tenacious on this point. He often rails
against the universal use of carriages, and quotes the words of
honest Nashe to that effect. " It was thought," says Nashe, in
his Quaternio, " a kind of solecism, and to savour of effeminacy,
for a young gentleman in the flourishing time of his age to
creep into a coach, and to shroud himself from wind and
weather: our great delight was to outbrave the blustering
Boreas upon a great horse ; to arm and prepare ourselves to go
with Mars and Bellona into the field, was our sport and pas-
time ; coaches and caroches we left unto them for whom they
were first invented, for ladies and gentlemen, and decrepit age
and impotent people."

The Squire insists that the English gentlemen have lost much
of their hardiness and manhood, since the introduction of car-
riages. ' ' Compare, " he will say, ' ' the fine gentleman of former
times, ever on horseback, booted and spurred, and travel-
stained, but open, frank, manly, and chivalrous, with the fine
gentleman of the present day, full of affectation and effeminacy,
rolling along a turnpike in his voluptuous vehicle. The young
men of those days were rendered brave, and lofty, and gener-
ous in their notions, by almost living in their saddles, and hav«

HORSEMANSHIP. 71

ing their foaming steeds 'like proud seas under them.' There
is something," he adds, "in bestriding a fine horse that makes
a man feel more than mortal. He seems to have doubled his
nature, and to have added to his own courage and sagacity the
power, the speed, and stateliness of the superb animal on which
he is mounted."

" It is a great delight," says old Nashe, " to see a young gen-
tleman with his skill and cunning, by his voice, rod, and spur,
better to manage and to command the great Bucephalus, than
the strongest Milo, with all his strength ; one while to see him
make him tread, trot, and gallop the ring; and one after to
see him make him gather up roundly ; to bear his head stead-
ily ; to run a full career swiftly ; to stop a sudden lightly ; anon
after to see him make him advance, to yerke, to go back, and
sidelong, to turn on either hand ; to gallop the gallop galliard ;
to do the capriole, the chambetta, and dance the curvetty. "

In conformity to these ideas, the Squire had them all on
horseback at an early age, and made them ride, slapdash, about
the country, without flinching at hedge, or ditch, or stone wall,
to the imminent danger of their necks.

Even the fan- Julia was partially included hi this system ;
and, under the instructions of old Christy, has become one of
the best horsewomen in the country. The Squire says it is
better than all the cosmetics and sweeteners of the breath that
ever were invented. He extols the horsemanship of the ladies
in former times, when Queen Elizabeth would scarcely suffer
the rain to stop her accustomed ride. "And then think," he
•will say, "what nobler and sweeter beings it made them.
"What a difference must there be, both in mind and body, be-
tween a joyous, high-spirited dame of those days, glowing with
health and exercise, freshened by every breeze that blows,
seated loftily and gracefully on her saddle, with plume on
head, and hawk on hand, and her descendant of the present
day, the pale victim of routs and ball-rooms, sunk languidly
in one corner of an enervating carriage."

The Squire's equestrian system has been attended with great
success ; for his sons, having passed through the whole course
of instruction without breaking neck or limb, are now health-
ful, spirited, and active, and have the true Englishman's love
for a horse. If their manliness and frankness are praised in
their father's hearing, he quotes the old Persian maxim, and
says, they have been taught "to ride, to shoot, and to speak
the truth."

72 BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

It is true, the Oxonian has now and then practised the old
gentleman's doctrines a little in the extreme. He is a gay
youngster, rather fonder of his horse than his book, with a lit-
tle dash of the dandy ; though the ladies all declare that he is
"the flower of the flock." The first year that he was sent to
Oxford, he had a tutor appointed to overlook him, a dry chip
of the university. When he returned home in the vacation,
'the Squire made many inquiries about how he liked his college,
his studies, and his tutor.

" Oh, as to my tutor, sir, I've parted with him some time
since."

"You have! and, pray, why so?"

"Oh, sir, hunting was all the go at our college, and I was a
little short of funds; so I discharged my tutor, and took a
horse, you know."

"Ah, I was not aware of that, Tom," said the Squire, mildly.

When Tom returned to college, his allowance was doubled,
that he might be enabled to keep both horse and tutor.

LOVE SYMPTOMS.

I will now begin to sigh, read poets, look pale, go neatly, and be most apparently
in love.— MARSTON.

I SHOULD not be surprised, if we should have another pair of
turtles at the Hall ; for Master Simon has informed me, in great
confidence, that he susi>ect8 the general of some design upon
the susceptible heart of Lady Lillycraft. I have, indeed, no-
ticed a growing attention and courtesy in the veteran towards
her ladyship ; he softens very much in her company, sits by
her at table, and entertains her with long stories about Sering-
apatam, and pleasant anecdotes of the Mulligatawney club.
I have even seen him present her with a full-blown rose from
the hot-house, in a style of the most captivating gallantry, and
it was accepted with great suavity and graciousness ; for her
ladyship delights in receiving the homage and attention of the
sex.

Indeed, the general was one of the earliest admirers that
dangled in her train, during her short reign of beauty ; and
they flirted together for half a season in London, some thirty
or forty years since. She reminded him lately, in the course

LOVE SYMPTOMS. 73

of a conversation about former days, of the time when he used
to ride a white horse, and to canter so gallantly by the side of
her carriage in Hyde Park ; whereupon I have remarked that
the veteran has regularly escorted her since, when she rides
out on horseback ; and, I suspect, he almost persuades himself
that he makes as captivating an appearance as in his youthful
days.

It would be an interesting and memorable circumstance in
the chronicles of Cupid, if this spark of the tender passion, after
lying dormant for such a length of time, should again be fanned
into a flame, from amidst the ashes of two burnt-out hearts. It
would be an instance of perdurable fidelity, worthy of being
placed beside those recorded in one of the Squire's favourite
tomes, commemorating the constancy of the olden times ; in
which times, we are told, "Men and wymmen coulde love
togyders seven yeres, and no licours lustes were betwene them,
and thenne was love, trouthe, and f eythf ulnes ; and lo in lyke
wyse was used love in King Arthur's dayes."*

Still, however, this may be nothing but a little venerable
flirtation, the general being a veteran dangler, and the good
lady habituated to these kind of attentions. Master Simon, on
the other hand, thinks the general is looking about him with
the wary eye of an old campaigner ; and, now that he is on the
wane, is desirous of getting into warm winter-quarters. Much
allowance, however, must be made for Master Simon's uneasi-
ness on the subject, for he looks on Lady Lillycraft's house as
one of his strongholds, where he is lord of the ascendant ; and,
with all his admiration of the general, I much doubt whether
he would like to see him lord of the lady and the establish-
ment.

There are certain other symptoms, notwithstanding, that give
an air of probability to Master Simon's intimations. Thus,
for instance, I have observed that the general has been very
assiduous in his attentions to her ladyship's dogs, and haa
several times exposed his fingers to imminent, jeopardy, in at-
tempting to pat Beauty on the head. It is to be hoped his
advances to the mistress will be more favourably received, as all
his overtures towards a caress are greeted by the pestilent little
cur with a wary kindling of the eye, and a most venomous
growl.

He has, moreover, been very complaisant towards my lady's

* Morte d'Arthur.

74 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

gentlewoman, the immaculate Mrs. Hannah, whom he used to
speak of in a way that I do not choose to mention. Whether
she has the same suspicions with Master Simon or not, I cannot
say ; but she receives his civilities with no better grace than the
implacable Beauty; unscrewing her mouth into a most acid
smile, and looking as though she could bite a piece out of him.
In short, the poor general seems to have as formidable foes to
contend with, as a hero of ancient fairy tale ; who had to fight
his way to his enchanted princess through ferocious monsters
of every kind, and to encounter the brimstone terrors of some
fiery dragon.

There is still another circumstance, which inclines me to give
very considerable credit to Master Simon's suspicions. Lady
Lillycraft is very fond of quoting poetry, and the conversation
often turns upon it, on which occasions the general is thrown
completely out. It happened the other day that Spenser's
Fairy Queen was the theme for the greater part of the morn-
ing, and the poor general sat perfectly silent. I found him not
long after in the library, with spectacles on nose, a book in his
hand, and fast asleep. On my approach, he awoke, slipt the
spectacles into his pocket, and began to read very attentively.
After a little while he put a paper in the place, and laid the
volume aside, which I perceived was the Fairy Queen. I have
had the curiosity to watch how he got on in his poetical studies ;
but though I have repeatedly seen him with the book in his
hand, yet I find the paper has not advanced above three or
four pages ; the general being extremely apt to fall asleep when
he reads.

FALCONET.

Ne Is there hawk which mantleth on her perch,

Whether high tow'ring or accousting low,
But I the measure of her flight doe search.

And all her prey and all her diet know.— SPKNSER.

THERE are several grand sources of lamentation furnished to
the worthy Squire, by the improvement of society and the
grievous advancement of knowledge; among which there is
none, I believe, that causes him more frequent regret than the
unfortunate invention of gunpowder. To this he continually
traces the decay of some favourite custom, and, indeed^ the

FALCONRY. 75

general downfall of all chivalrous and romantic usages. " Eng-
lish soldiers," he says, "have never been the men they were in
the days of the cross-bow and the long-bow; when they de-
pended upon the strength of the arm, and the English archer
<could draw a cloth-yard shaft to the head. These were the
times when, at the battles of Cressy, Poictiers, and Agincourt,
the French chivalry was completely destroyed by the bowmen
of England. The yeomanry, too, have never been what they
"were, when, in times of peace, they were constantly exercised
with the bow, and archery was a favourite holiday pastime."

Among the other evils which have followed in the train of
this fatal invention of gunpowder, the Squire classes the total
decline of the noble art of falconry. " Shooting," he says, "is
a skulking, treacherous, solitary sport, in comparison; but
hawking was a gallant, open, sunshiny recreation ; it was the
generous sport of hunting carried into the skies."

" It was, moreover," he says, " according to Braithwate, the
stately amusement of ' high and mounting spirits ; ' for as the
old Welsh proverb affirms in those times, ' you might know a
gentleman by his hawk, horse, and grayhound.' Indeed, a
cavalier was seldom seen abroad without his hawk on his fist ;
and even a lady of rank did not think herself completely
equipped, in riding forth, unless she had a tassel-gentel held by
jesses on her delicate hand. It was thought in those excellent
days, according to an old writer, ' quite sufficient for noble-
men to winde their horn, and to carry their hawke fair ; and
lea^e study and learning to the children of mean people.' "

Knowing the good Squire's hobby, therefore, I have not been
surprised at finding that, among the various recreations of for-
mer times which he has endeavoured to revive in the little world
in which he rules, he has bestowed great attention on the noble
art of falconry. In this he, of course, has been seconded by his
indefatigable coadjutor, Master Simon ; and even the parson
has thrown considerable light on their labours, by various hints
on the subject, which he has met with hi old English works.
As to the precious work of that famous dame, Juliana Barnes ;
the Gentleman's Academie, by Markham ; and the other well-
known treatises that were the manuals of ancient sportsmen,
they have them at their fingers' ends; but they have more
especially studied some old tapestry in the house, whereon is
represented a party of cavaliers and stately dames, with doub-
lets, caps, and flaunting feathers, mounted on horse, with
attendants on foot, all in animated pursuit of the game.

76 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

The Squire has discountenanced the Trilling of any hawks in
his neighbourhood, but gives a liberal bounty for all that are
brought him alive ; so that the Hall is well stocked with all
kinds of birds of prey. On these he and Master Simon have
exhausted their patience and ingenuity, endeavouring to ' ' re-
claim" them, as it is termed, and to train them up for the sport ;
but they have met with continual checks and disappointments.
Their feathered school has turned out the most uiitractable and
graceless scholars: nor is it the least of their trouble to drill
the retainers who were to act as ushers under them, and to
take immediate charge of these refractory birds. Old Christy
and the gamekeeper both, for a time, set their faces against
the whole plan of education ; Christy having been nettled at
hearing what he terms a wild-goose chase put on a par with a
fox-hunt ; and the gamekeeper having always been accustomed
to look upon hawks as arrant poachers, which it was his duty
to shoot down, and nail, in terrorem, against the out-houses.

Christy has at length taken the matter in hand, but has done
still more mischief by his intermeddling. He is as positive and
wrong-headed about this, as he is about hunting. Master
Simon has continual disputes with him, as to feeding and
training the hawks. He reads to him long passages from the
old authors I have mentioned ; but Christy, who cannot read,
has a sovereign contempt for all book-knowledge, and persists
in treating the hawks according to his own notions, which are
drawn from his experience, in younger days, in the rearing of
game-cocks.

The consequence is, that, between these jarring systems, the
poor birds have had a most trying and unhappy time of it.
Many have fallen victims to Christy's feeding and Master
Simon's physicking ; for the latter has gone to work secundum
artem, and has given them all the vomitings and scourings laid
down in the books ; never were poor hawks so fed and phy-
sicked before. Others have been lost by being but half "re-
claimed," or tamed; for on being taken into the field, they
have " raked" after the game quite out of hearing of the call,
and never returned to school.

All these disappointments had been petty, yet sore grievances
to the Squire, and had made him to despond about success.
He has lately, however, been made happy by the receipt of a
fine Welsh falcon, which Master Simon terms a stately high-
flyer. It is a present from the Squire's friend, Sir Watkyn
Williams Wynne; and is, no doubt, a descendant of some

FALCONRY. 77

ancient line of Welsh princes of the air, that have long lorded
it over their kingdom of clouds, from Wynnstay to the very
summit of Snowden, or the brow of Penmanmawr.

Ever since the Squire received this invaluable present, he
has been as impatient to sally forth and make proof of it, as
was Don Quixote to assay his suit of armour. There have been
some demurs as to whether the bird was hi proper health and
training; but these have been overruled by the vehement
desire to play with a new toy ; and it has been determined,
right or wrong, in season or out of season, to have a day's
sport in hawking to-morrow.

The Hall, as usual, whenever the Squire is about to make
some new sally on his hobby, is all agog with the thing. Miss
Templeton, who is brought up in reverence for all her guardi-
an's humours, has proposed to be of the party ; and Lady Lilly-
craft has talked also of riding out to the scene of action and
looking on. This has gratified the old gentleman extremely ;
he hails it as an auspicious omen of the revival of falconry, and
does not despair but the time will come when it will be again
the pride of a fine lady to carry about a noble falcon, in
preference to a parrot or a lap-dog.

I have amused myself with the bustling preparations of that
busy spirit, Master Simon, and the continual thwartings he
receives from that genuine son of a pepper-box, old Christy.
They have had half-a-dozen consultations about how the hawk
is to be prepared for the morning's sport. Old Nimrod, as
usual, has always got in a pet, upon which Master Simon has
invariably given up the point, observing, in a good-humoured
tone, ' ' Well, well, have it your own way, Christy ; only don't
put yourself in a passion ;" a reply which always nettles the
old man ten times more than ever.

78 BRACEBRIDGE HALL

HAWKING.

The soaring hawk, from fist that flias,

Her falconer doth constrain
Some times to range the ground about

To find her out again ;
And if by sight or sound of bell,

His falcon he may see,
Wo ho ! he cries, with cheerful voice —

The gladdest man is he.— Handful of Pleatant Delitet.

AT an early hour this morning, the Hall was in a bustle pre-
paring for the sport of the day. I heard Master Simon whis-
tling and singing under my window at sunrise, as he was pre-
paring the jesses for the hawk's legs, and could distinguish
now and then a stanza of one of his favourite old ditties:

" In peascod time, when hound to horn
Gives note that buck be kill'd;
And little boy, with pipe of corn,
Is tending sheep a-fteld," <£c.

A hearty breakfast, well flanked by cold meats, was served
up in the great hall. The whole garrison of retainers and
hangers-on were in motion, re-enforced by volunteer idlers
from the village. The horses were led up and down before the
door ; every body had something to say, and something to do,
and hurried hither and thither ; there was a direful yelping of
dogs ; some that were to accompany us being eager to set off,
and others that were to stay at home being whipped back to
their kennels. In short, for once, the good Squire's mansion
might have been taken as a good specimen of one of the ranti-
pole establishments of the good old feudal times.

Breakfast being finished, the chivalry of the Hall prepared
to take the field. The fair Julia was of the party, in a hunting-
dress, with a light plume of feathers in her riding -hat. As she
mounted her favourite galloway, I remarked, with pleasure,
that old Christy forgot his usual crustiness, and hastened to
adjust her saddle and bridle. He touched his cap, as she smiled
on him, and thanked him; and then, looking round at the
other attendants, gave a knowing nod of his head, in which I
read pride and exultation at the charming appearance of his
pupil.

Lady Lillycraft had likewise determined to witness the sport.
She was dressed in her broad white beaver, tied under the chin.

HA WRING. 79

and a riding-habit of the last century. She rode her sleek,
ambling pony, whose motion was as easy as a rocking-chair ;
and was gallantly escorted by the general, who looked not
unlike one of the doughty heroes in the old prints of the battle
of Blenheim. The parson, likewise, accompanied her on the
other side; for this was a learned amusement, in which he
took great interest ; and, indeed, had given much counsel, from
his knowledge of old customs.

At length every thing was arranged, and off we set from the
Hall. The exercise on horseback puts one in fine spirits ; and
the scene was gay and animating. The young men of the fam-
ily accompanied Miss Templeton. She sat lightly and grace-
fully in her saddle, her plumes dancing and waving in the air ;
and the group had a charming effect, as they appeared and dis-
appeared among the trees, cantering along, with the bounding
animation of youth. The Squire and Master Simon rode to-
gether, accompanied by old Christy, mounted on Pepper. The
latter bore the hawk on his fist, as he insisted the bird was
most accustomed to him. There was a rabble rout on foot,
composed of retainers from the Hall, and some idlers from the
village, with two or three spaniels, for the purpose of starting
the game.

A kind of corps de reserve came on quietly in the rear, com-
posed of Lady Lillycraft, General Harbottle, the parson, and a
fat footman. Her ladyship ambled gently along on her pony,
while the general, mounted on a tall hunter, looked down upon
her with an air of the most protecting gallantry.

For my part, being no sportsman, I kept with this last party,
or rather lagged behind, that I might take in the whole pic-
ture; and the parson occasionally slackened his pace, and
jogged on in company with me.

The sport led us at some distance from the Hall, in a soft
meadow, reeking with the moist verdure of spring. A little
river ran through it, bordered by willows, which had put forth
their tender early foliage. The sportsmen were in quest of
herons, which were said to keep about this stream.

There was some disputing, already, among the leaders of the
sport. The Squire, Master Simon, and old Christy, came every
now and then to a pause, to consult together, like the field offi-
cers in an army ; and I saw, by certain motions of the head,
that Christy was as positive as any old wrong-headed German
commander.

As we were prancing up this quiet meadow, every sound we

80 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

made was answered by a distinct echo, from the sunny wall of
an old building, that lay on the opposite margin of the
stream ; and I paused to listen to this ' ' spirit of a sound, " which
seems to love such quiet and beautiful places. The parson in-
formed me that this was the ruin of an ancient grange, and
was supposed, by the country people, to be haunted by a dob-
bie, a kind of rural sprite, something like Robin-good-fellow.
They often fancied the echo to be the voice of the dobbie
answering them, and were rather shy of disturbing it after
dark. He added, that the Squire was very careful of this ruin,
on account of the superstition connected with it. As I con-
sidered this local habitation of an " airy nothing, " I called to mind
the fine description of an echo in Webster's Duchess of Malfry:

" Yond side o' th' river lies a wall,

Piece of a cloister, which, in my opinion,
Gives the best echo that you ever heard:
80 plain in the distinction of our words,
That many have supposed it a spirit
That answers."

The parson went on to comment on a pleasing and fanciful
appellation which the Jews of old gave to the echo, which they
called Bath-kool, that is to say, "the daughter of the voice;"
they considered it an oracle, supplying in the second temple
the want of the urim and thummim, with which the first was
honoured.* The little man was just entering very largely and
learnedly upon the subject, when we were startled by a prodi-
gious bawling, shouting, and yelping. A flight of crows,
alarmed by the approach of our forces, had suddenly risen
from a meadow ; a cry was put up by the rabble rout on foot
— "Now, Christy! now is your time, Christy!" The Squire
and Master Simon, who were beating up the river banks in
quest of a heron, called out eagerly to Christy to keep quiet ;
the old man, vexed and bewildered by the confusion of voices,
completely lost his head ; in his flurry he slipped off the hood,
cast off the falcon, and away flew the crows, and away soared
the hawk.

I had paused on a rising ground, close to Lady Lillycraft and
her escort, from whence I had a good view of the sport. I was
pleased with the appearance of the party in the meadow, rid-
ing along in the direction that the bird flew ; their bright beam-
ing faces turned up to the bright skies as they watched the

* Better's Monde euchante.

HAWKING. 81

game ; the attendants on foot scampering along, looking up, and
calling out ; and the dogs bounding and yelping with clamorous
sympathy.

The hawk had singled out a quarry from among the carrion
crew. It was curious to see the efforts of the two birds to get
above each other; one to make the fatal swoop, the other to
avoid it. Now they crossed athwart a bright feathery cloud,
and now they were against the clear blue sky. I confess, be-
ing 110 sportsman, I was more interested for the poor bird that
was striving for its lif e, than for the hawk that was playing
the part of a mercenary soldier. At length the hawk got the
upper hand, and made a rushing stoop at her quarry, but the
latter made as sudden a surge downwards, and slanting up
again, evaded the blow, screaming and making the best of his
way for a dry tree on the brow of a neighbouring hill ; while the
hawk, disappointed of her blow, soared up again into the air,
and appeared to be " raking" off. It was in vain old Christy
called, and whistled, and endeavoured to lure her down : she
paid no regard to him ; and, indeed, his calls were drowned in
the shouts and yelps of the army of militia that had followed
him into the field.

Just then an exclamation from Lady Lillycraft made me
turn my head. I beheld a complete confusion among the
sportsmen in the little vale below us. They were galloping
and running towards the edge of a bank ; and i was shocked to
see Miss Templeton's horse galloping at large without his rider.
I rode to the place to which the others wei-e hurrying, and
when I reached the bank, which almost overhung the stream,
I saw at the foot of it, the fair Julia, pale, bleeding, and appar-
ently lifeless, supported in the arms of her frantic lover.

In galloping heedlessly along, with her eyes turned upward,
she had unwarily approached too near the bank ; it had given
way with her, and she and her horse had been precipitated to
the pebbled margin of the river.

I never saw greater consternation. The captain was dis-
tracted; Lady Lilly craft fainting; the Squire in dismay, and
Master Simon at his wit's end. The beautiful creature at length
showed signs of returning life; she opened her eyes; looked
around her upon the anxious group, and comprehending in a
moment the nature of the scene, gave a sweet smile, and put-
ting her hand in her lover's, exclaimed, feebly, "I am not much
hurt, Guy !" I could have taken her to my heart for that sin-
gle exclamation.

82 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

It was found, indeed, that she had escaped almost miracu-
lously, with a contusion on the head, a sprained ankle, and
some slight bruises. After her wound was stanched, she was
taken to a neighbouring cottage, until a carriage could be sum-
moned to convey her home; and when this had arrived, the
cavalcade which had issued forth so gayly on this enterprise,
returned slowly and pensively to the Hall.

I had been charmed by the generous spirit shown by this
young creature, who, amidst pain and danger, had been anxious
only to relieve the distress of those around her. I was grati-
fied, therefore, by the universal concern displayed by the
domestics on our return. They came crowding down the
avenue, each eager to render assistance. The butler stood
ready with some curiously delicate cordial ; the old housekeeper
was provided with half-a-dozen nostrums, prepared by her own
hands, according to the family receipt-book ; while her niece,
the melting Phoebe, having no other way of assisting, stood
wringing her hands, and weeping aloud.

The most material effect that is likely to follow this accident,
is a postponement of the nuptials, which were close at hand.
Though I commiserate the impatience of the captain on that
account, yet I shall not otherwise be sorry at the delay, as it
will give me a better opportunity of studying the characters
here assembled, with which I grow more and more entertained.

I cannot but perceive that the worthy Squire is quite discon-
certed at the unlucky result of his hawking experiment, and
this unfortunate illustration of his eulogy on female equitation.
Old Christy, too, is very waspish, having been sorely twitted
by Master Simon for having let his hawk fly at carrion. As
to the falcon, in the confusion occasioned by the fair Julia's
disaster, the bird was totally forgotten. I make no doubt she
has made the best of her way back to the hospitable Hall of Sir
Watkyn Williams Wynne; and may very possibly, at this
present writing, be pluming her wings among tlie breezy
bowers of Wynnstay.

ST. MARK'S EVB. 83

ST. MARK'S EVE.

O 't is 4 fearful thing to be no more.

Or If to be, to wander after death !

To walk as spirits do, in brakes all day,

And, when the darkness comes, to glide in paths

That lead to graves ; and in the silent vault.

Where lies your own pale shroud, to hover o'er it,

Striving to enter your forbidden corpse. — DRYDEN.

THE conversation this evening at the supper-table took a
curious turn, on the subject of a superstition, formerly very
prevalent in this part of the country, relative to the present
night of the year, which is the Eve of St. Mark's. It was be-
lieved, the parson informed us, that if any one would watch in
the church porch on this eve, for three successive years, from
eleven to one o'clock at night, he would see, on the third year,
the shades of those of the parish who were to die in the course
of the year, pass by him into church, clad in their usual ap-
parel.

Dismal as such a sight would be, he assured us that it was
formerly a frequent thing for persons to make the necessary
vigils. He had known more than one instance in his time.
One old woman, who pretended to have seen this phantom pro-
cession, was an object of great awe for the whole year after-
wards, and caused much uneasiness and mischief. If she shook
her head mysteriously at a person, it was' like a death-warrant;
and she had nearly caused the death of a sick person, by look-
ing ruefully in at the window.

There was also an old man, not many years since, of a sullen,
melancholy temperament, who had kept two vigils, and began
to excite some talk in the village, when, fortunately for the
public comfort, he died shortly after his third watching; very
probably from a cold that he had taken, as the night was tem-
pestuous. It was reported about the village, however, that he
had seen his own phantom pass by him into the church.

This led to the mention of another superstition of an equally
strange and melancholy kind, which, however, is chiefly con-
fined to Wales. It is respecting what are called corpse-candles,
little wandering fires, of a pale bluish light, that move about
like tapers hi the open air, and are supposed to designate the
way some corpse is to go. One was seen at Lanyler, late at
night, hovering up and down, along the bank of the Istwith,

84 B&ACSBRTD&B IT ALL.

and was watched by the neighbours until they -were tired, and
went to bed. Not long afterwards there came a comely coun-
try lass, from Montgomeryshire, to see her friends, who dwelt
on the opposite side of the river. She thought to ford the
stream at the very place where the light had been first seen,
but was dissuaded on account of the height of the flood. She
walked to and fro along the bank, just where the candle had
moved, waiting for the subsiding of the water. She at length
endeavored to cross, but the poor girl was drowned in the
attempt.*

There was something mournful in this little anecdote of rural
superstition, that seemed to affect all the listeners. Indeed, it
is curious to remark how completely a conversation of the kind
will absorb the attention of a circle, and sober down its gayety,
however boisterous. By degrees I noticed that every one was
leaning forward over the table, with eyes earnestly fixed upon
the parson ; and at the mention of corpse-candles which had
been seen about the chamber of a young lady who died on the
eve of her wedding-day, Lady Lillycraf t turned pale.

I have witnessed the introduction of stories of the kind into
various evening circles ; they were often commenced in jest,
and listened to with smiles ; but I never knew the most gay or
the most enlightened of audiences, that were not, if the con-
versation continued for any length of time, completely and
solemnly interested in it. There is, I believe, a degree of super-
stition lurking in every mind; and I doubt if any one can
thoroughly examine all his secret notions and impulses, with-
out detecting it, hidden, perhaps, even from himself. It seems,
in fact, to be a part of our nature, liko instinct in animals,
acting independently of our reason. It is often found existing
in lofty natiires. especially those that are poetical and aspiring.
A great and extraordinary poet of our day, whose life and
writings evince a mind siibject to powerfiil exaltations, is said
to believe in omens and secret intimations. Caesar, it is well
known, was greatly under the influence of such belief; and
Napoleon had his good and evil days, and his presiding star.

As to the worthy parson. I have no doubt that he is strongly
inclined to superstition. He is naturally credulous, and passes
so much of his time searching out popular traditions and super-
natural talcs, that his mind has probably become infected by
them. He has lately been immersed in the Demonolatria of

*AubrtjrXjlisceL

ST. MARK'S EVE. 85

Nicholas Remigus, concerning supernatural occurrences in Lor-
raine, and the writings of Joachimus Camerius, called by Vos-
sius the Phoenix of Germany ; and he entertains the ladies with
stories from them, that make them almost afraid to go to bed
at night. I have been charmed myself with some of the wild
little superstitions which he has adduced from Blefkenius,
Schoffer, and others, such as those of the Laplanders about the
domestic spirits which wake them at night, and summon them
to go and fish ; of Thor, the deity of thunder, who has power of
lif e and death, health and sickness, and who, armed with the
rainbow, shoots his arrows at those evil demons that live on
the tops of rocks and mountains, and infest the lakes ; of the
Juhles or Juhlafolket, vagrant troops of spirits, which roam
the air, and wander up and down by forests and mountains,
and the moonlight sides of hills.

The parson never openly professes his belief in ghosts, but I
have remarked that he has a suspicious way of pressing great
names into the defence of supernatural doctrines, and making
philosophers and saints fight for him. He expatiates at large
on the opinions of the ancient philosophers about larves, or noc-
turnal phantoms, the spirits of the wicked, which wandered
like exiles about the earth; and about those spiritual beings
which abode in the air, but descended occasionally to earth, and
mingled among mortals, acting as agents between them and the
gods. He quotes also from Philo the rabbi, the contemporary
of the apostles, and, according to some, the friend of St. Paul,
who says that the air is full of spirits of different ranks ; some
destined to exist for a time in mortal bodies, from which being
emancipated, they pass and repass between heaven and earth,
as agents or messengers in the service of the deity.

But the worthy little man assumes a bolder tone, when he
quotes from the fathers of the church ; such as St. Jerome, who
gives it as the opinion of all the doctors, that the air is filled
with powers opposed to each other ; and Lactantius, who says
that corrupt and dangerous spirits wander over the earth, and
seek to console themselves for their own fall by effecting the
ruin of the human race ; and Clemens Alexandrinus, who is of
opinion that the souls of the blessed have knowledge of what
passes among men, the same as angels have.

I am now alone in my chamber, but these themes have taken
such hold of my imagination, that I cannot sleep. The room in
which I sit is just fitted to foster such a state of mind. The
walls are hung with tapestry, the figures of which are faded,

86 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

and look like unsubstantial shapes melting away from sight.
Over the fire-place is the portrait of a lady, who, according to
the housekeeper's tradition, pined to death for the loss of her
lover in the battle of Blenheim. She has a most pale and plain-
tive countenance, and seems to fix her eyes mournfully upon
me. The family have long since retired. I have heard their
steps die away, and the distant doors clap to after them. The !
murmur of voices, and the peal of remote laughter, no longer
reach the ear. The clock from the church, in which so many
of the former inhabitants of this house lie buried, has chimed
the awful hour of midnight.

I have sat by the window and mused upon the dusky land-
scape, watching the lights disappearing, one by one, from the
distant village ; and the moon rising in her silent majesty, and
leading up all the silver pomp of heaven. As I have gazed upon
these quiet groves and shadowy lawns, silvered over, and im-
perfectly lighted by streaks of dewy moonshine, my mind has
been crowded by "thick-coming fancies" concerning those
spiritual beings which

"walk the earth

Unseen, both when we wake and when we sleep."

Are there, indeed, such beings? Is this space between us and
the deity filled up by innumerable orders of spiritual beings,
forming the same gradations between the human soul and di-
vine perfection, that we see prevailing from humanity down-
wards to the meanest insect? It is a sublime and beautiful doc-
trine, inculcated by the early fathers, that there are guardian
angels appointed to watch over cities and nations ; to take care
of the welfare of good men, and to guard and guide the steps
of helpless infancy. "Nothing," says St. Jerome, "gives us a
greater idea of the dignity of our soul, than that God has given
each of us, at the moment of our birth, an angel to have care
of it."

Even the doctrine of departed spirits returning to visit the
scenes and beings which were dear to them during the body's
existence, though it has been debased by the absurd supersti-
tions of the vulgar, in itself is awfully solemn and sublime.
However lightly it may be ridiculed, yet the attention involun-
tarily yielded to it whenever it is made the subject of serious
discussion ; its prevalence in all ages and countries, and even
among newly-discovered nations, that have had no previous in-
terchange of thought with other parts of the world, prove it to

ST. MARK'S EVE. 87

be one of those mysteries, and almost instinctive beliefs, to
which, if left to ourselves, we should naturally incline.

In spite of all the pride of reason and philosophy, a vague
doubt will still lurk in the mind, and perhaps will never be per-
fecfly eradicated; as it is concerning a matter that does not
admit of positive demonstration. Every thing connected with
our spiritual nature is full of doubt and difficulty. "We are
fearfully and wonderfully made ;" we are surrounded by mys-
teries, and we are mysteries even to ourselves. Who yet has
been able to comprehend and describe the nature of the soul,
its connection with the body, or in what part of the frame it is
situated? We know merely that it does exist; but whence it
came, and when it entered into us, and how it is retained, and
where it is seated, and how it operates, are all matters of mere
speculation, and contradictory theories. If, then, we are thus
ignorant of this spiritual essence, even while it forms a part of
ourselves, and is continually present to our consciousness, how
can we pretend to ascertain or to deny its powers and opera-
tions when released from its fleshy prison-house? It is more
the manner, therefore, in which this superstition has been de-
graded, than its intrinsic absurdity, that has brought it into
contempt. Eaise it above the frivolous purposes to which it
has been applied, strip it of the gloom and horror with which it
has been surrounded, and there is none of the whole circle of
visionary creeds that could more delightfully elevate the im-
agination, or more tenderly affect the heart. It would become
a sovereign comfort at the bed of death, soothing the bitter
tear wrung from us by the agony of our mortal separation.
What could be more consoling than the idea, that the souls of
those whom we once loved were permitted to return and watch
over our welfare? — that affectionate and guardian spirits sat by
our pillows when we slept, keeping a vigil over our most help-
less hours? — that beauty and innocence which had languished
into the tomb, yet smiled unseen around us, revealing them-
selves in those blest dreams wherein we live over again the
hours of past endearment? A belief of this kind would, I should
think, be a new incentive to virtue ; rendering us circumspect
even in our most secret moments, from the idea that those we
once loved and honoured were invisible witnesses of all our
actions.

It would take away, too, from that loneliness and destitution
which we are apt to feel more and more as we get on in our pil-
grimage through the wilderness of this world, and find that

88 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

those who set forward with us, lovingly and cheerily, on the
journey, have, one by one, dropped away from our side. Place
the superstition in this light, and I confess I should like to be a
believer in it. I see nothing in it that is incompatible with the
tender and merciful nature of our religion, nor revolting to the
wishes and affections of the heart.

Tnere are departed beings that I have loved as I never again
shall love in this world ; — that have loved me as I never again
shall be loved ! If such beings do ever retain in their blessed
spheres the attachments which they felt on earth— if they take
an interest in the poor concerns of transient mortality, and aro
permitted to hold communion with those whom they have loved
on earth, I feel as if now, at this deep hour of night, in this
silence and solitude, I could receive their visitation with the
most solemn, but unalloyed delight.

In truth, such visitations would be too happy for this world ;
they would be incompatible with the nature of this imperfect
state of being. We are here placed in a mere scene of spiritual
thraldom and restraint. Our souls are shut in and limited by
bounds and barriers ; shackled by mortal infirmities, and sub-
ject to all the gross impediments of matter. In vain would
they seek to act independently of the body, and to mingle
together in spiritual intercourse. They can only act here
through their fleshy organs. Their earthly loves are made up
of transient embraces and long separations. The most intimate
friendship, of what brief and scattered portions of time does it
consist ! We take each other by the hand, and we exchange a
few words and looks of kindness, and we rejoice together for a
few short moments — and then days, months, years intervene,
and we see and know nothing of each other. Or, granting that
we dwell together for the full season of this our mortal life, the
grave soon closes its gates between us, and then our spirits are
doomed to remain in separation and widowhood; until they
meet again in that more perfect state of being, where soul wiJl
dwell with soul in blissful communion, and there will be neither
death, nor absence, nor any thing else to interrupt our felicity.

*** In the foregoing paper, I have alluded to the writings of
some of the old Jewish rabbins. They abound with wild
theories; but among them are many truly poetical flights; and
their ideas are often very beautifully expressed. Their specu-
lations on the nature of angels are curious and fanciful, though
much resembling the doctrines of the ancient philosophers. In

GENTILITY. 89

the writings of the Rabbi Eleazer is an account of the tempta-
tion of our first parents, and the fall of the angels, which the
parson pointed out to me as having probably furnished some of
the groundwork for " Paradise Lost."

According to Eleazer, the ministering angels said to the
Deity, " What is there in man, that thou makest him of such
importance ? Is he any thing else than vanity ? for he can
scarcely reason a little on terrestrial things." To which God
replied, ' ' Do you imagine that I will be exalted and glorified
only by you here above ? I am the same below that I am here.
Who is there among you that can call all the creatures by their
names ?" There was none found among them that could do so.
At that moment Adam arose, and called all the creatures by
their names. Seeing which, the ministering angels said among
themselves, ' ' Let us consult together how we may cause Adam
to sin against the Creator, otherwise he will not fail to become
our master."

Samtnael, who was a great prince in the heavens, was present
at this council, with the saints of the first order, and the sera-
phim of six bands. Sammael chose several out of the twelve
orders to accompany him, and descended below, for the purpose
of visiting all the creatures which God had created. He found
none more cunning and more fit to do evil than the serpent.

The Rabbi then treats of the seduction and the fall of man ;
of the consequent fall of the demon, and the punishment which
God inflicted on Adam, Eve, and the serpent. " He made them
all come before him ; pronounced nine maledictions on Adam
and Eve, and condemned them to suffer death ; and he precipi-
tated Sammael and all his band from heaven. He cut off the
feet of the serpent, which had before the figure of a camel
(Sammael having been mounted on him), and he cursed him
among all beasts and animals."

GENTILITY.

• True Gentrie standeth in the trade

Of virtuous life, not in the fleshy line;
For bloud is knit, but Gentrie is divine.

— Mirror for Magistrates.

I HAVE mentioned some peculiarities of the Squire in the
education of his sons; but I would not have it thought that his

90 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

instructions were directed chiefly to their personal accomplish-
ments. He took great pains also to form their minds, and to
inculcate what he calls good old English principles, such as are
laid down in the writings of Peachem and his contemporaries.
There is one author of whom he cannot speak without indigna-
tion, which is Chesterfield. He avers that he did much, for a
time, to injure the true national character, and to introduce,
instead of open, manly sincerity, a hollow, perfidious courtli-,
ness. ''His maxims," he affirms, "were calculated to chill
the delightful enthusiasm of youth ; to make them ashamed of
that romance which is the dawn of generous manhood, and to
impart to them a cold polish and a premature worldliness.

" Many of Lord Chesterfield's maxims would make a young
man a mere man of pleasure ; but an English gentleman should
not be a mere man of pleasure. He has no right to such selfish
indulgence. His ease, his leisure, his opulence, are debts due
to his country, which he must ever stand ready to discharge.
He should be a man at all points; simple, frank, courteous,
intelligent, accomplished, and informed ; upright, intrepid, and
disinterested ; one that can mingle among freemen ; that can
cope with statesmen ; that can champion his country and its
rights, either at home or abroad. In a country like England,
where there is such free and unbounded scope for the exertion
of intellect, and where opinion and example have such weight
with the people, every gentleman of fortune and leisure should
feel himself bound to employ himself in some way towards
promoting the prosperity or glory of the nation. In a country
where intellect and action are trammelled and restrained, men
of rank and fortune may become idlers and triflers with im-
punity; but an English coxcomb is inexcusable; and this,
perhaps, is the reason why he is the most offensive and insup-
portable coxcomb in the world."

The Squire, as Frank Bracebridge informs me, would often
hold forth in this manner to his sons, when they were about
leaving the paternal roof ; one to travel abroad, one to go to
the army, and one to the university. He used to have them
with him in the library, which is hung with the portraits of
Sidney, Surrey, Raleigh, Wyat, and others. "Look at those
models of true English gentlemen, my sons," he would say
with enthusiasm ; "those were men that wreathed the graces
of the most delicate and refined taste around the stern virtues
of the soldier; that mingled what was gentle and gracious,
with what was hardy and manly; that possessed the true

GENTILITY. 91

chivalry of spirit, which is the exalted essence of manhood.
They are the lights by which the youth of the country should
array themselves. They were the patterns and idols of their
country at home; they were the illustrators of its dignity
abroad. 'Surrey,' says Camden, ' was the first nobleman that
illustrated his high birth with the beauty of learning. He was
acknowledged to be the gallantest man, the politest lover, and
the completest gentleman of his time. ' And as to Wyal, his
friend Surrey most amiably testifies of him, that his person
was majestic and beautiful, his visage ' stern and mild ;' that
he sung, and played the lute with remarkable sweetness ; spoke
foreign languages with grace and fluency, and possessed an
inexhaustible fund of wit. And see what a high commenda-
tion is passed upon these illustrious friends : ' They were the
two chieftains, who, having travelled into Italy, and there
tasted the sweet and stately measures and style of the Italian
poetry, greatly polished our rude and homely manner of vulgar
poetry from what it had been before, and therefore may be
justly called the reformers of our English poetry and style.'
And Sir Philip Sidney, who has left us such monuments of
elegant thought, and generous sentiment, and who illustrated
his chivalrous spirit so gloriously in the field. And Sir Walter
Raleigh, the elegant courtier, the intrepid soldier, the enter-
prising discoverer, the enlightened philosopher, the magnani-
mous martyr. These are the men for English gentlemen to
study. Chesterfield, with his cold and courtly maxims, would
have chilled and impoverished such spirits. He would have
blighted all the budding romance of their temperaments.
Sidney would never have written his Arcadia, nor Surrey
have challenged the world in vindication of the beauties of his
Geraldine. "These are the men, my sons," the Squire will
continue, "that show to what our national character may be
exalted, when its strong and powerful qualities are duly
wrought up and refined. The solidest bodies are capable of
the highest polish; and there is no character that may be
wrought to a more exquisite and unsullied brightness, than
that of the true English gentleman."

When Guy was about to depart for the army, the Squire
again took him aside, and gave him a long exhortation. He
warned him against that affectation of cool-blooded indiffer-
ence, which he was told was cultivated by the young British
officers, among whom it was a study to "sink the soldier" in
the mere man of fashion. "A soldier," said he, "without

92 BRACEBRIDOB HALL.

pride and enthusiasm in his profession, is a mere sanguinary
hireling. Nothing distinguishes him from the mercenary
bravo, but a spirit of patriotism, or a thirst for glory. It is the
fashion now-a-days, my son," said he, " to laugh at the spirit of
chivalry ; when that spirit is really extinct, the profession of
the soldier becomes a mere trade of blood." He then set
before him the conduct of Edward the Black Prince, who is his
mirror of chivalry; valiant, generous, affable, humane; gal-
lant in the field. But when he came to dwell on his courtesy
toward his prisoner, the king of France ; how he received him
in his tent, rather as a conqueror than as a captive ; attended
on him at table like one of his retinue ; rode uncovered beside
him on his entry into London, mounted on a common palfrey,
while his prisoner was mounted in state on a white steed of
stately beauty ; the tears of enthusiasm stood in the old gen-
tleman's eyes.

Finally, on taking leave, the good Squire put in his son's
hands, as a manual, one of his favourite old volumes, the life of
the Chevalier Bayard, by Godef roy ; on a blank page of which
he had written an extract from the Morte d' Arthur, containing
the eulogy of Sir Ector over the body of Sir Launcelot of the
Lake, which the Squire considers as comprising the excellen-
cies of a true soldier. "Ah, Sir Launcelot! thou wert head
of all Christian knights ; now there thou liest : thou wert never
matched of none earthly knights-hands. And thou wert the>
curtiest knight that ever bare shield. And thou wert the
truest friend to thy lover that ever bestrood horse ; and thou
wert the truest lover of a sinfull man that ever loved womj?n.
And thou wert the kindest man that ever strook with sword ;
and thou wert the goodliest person that ever came among the
presse of knights. And thou wert the meekest man and the
gentlest that ever eate in hall among ladies. And thou wert
the sternest knight to thy mortal foe that ever put speare in
the rest."

FORTUNE-TELLING. 93

FORTUNE-TELLING.

Each city, each town, and every village,

Affords us either an alms or pillage.

And if the weather be cold and raw,

Then in a barn we tumble on straw.

If warm and fair, by yea-cock and nay -cock,

The fields will afford us a hedge or a hay-cock.— Merry Beggars.

As I was walking one evening with the Oxonian, Master
Simon, and the general, in a meadow not far from the village,
we heard the sound of a fiddle, rudely played, and looking in
the direction from whence it came, we saw a thread of smoke
curling up from among the trees. The sound of music is
always attractive ; for, wherever there is music, there is good-
humour, or good-will. We passed along a footpath, and had a
peep through a break in the hedge,, at the musician and his
party, when the Oxonian gave us a wink, and told us that if
we would follow him we should have some sport.

It proved to be a gipsy encampment, consisting of three or
four little cabins, or tents, made of blankets and sail-cloth,
spread over hoops that were stuck in the ground. It was on
one side of a green lane, close under a hawthorn hedge, with
a broad beech-tree spreading above it. A small rill tinkled
along close by, through the fresh sward, that looked like a
carpet.

A tea-kettle was hanging by a crooked piece of iron, over a
fire made from dry sticks and leaves, and two old gipsies, in
red cloaks, sat crouched on the grass, gossiping over their
evening cup of tea ; for these creatures, though they li ve in the
open air, have their ideas of fireside comforts. There were
two or three children sleeping on the straw with which the
tents were littered ; a couple of donkeys were grazing in the
lane, and a thievish-looking dog was lying before the fire.
Some of the younger gipsies were dancing to the music of a
fiddle, played by a tall, slender stripling, in an old frock-coat,
with a peacock's feather stuck in his hat-band.

As we approached, a gipsy girl, with a pair of fine, roguish
eyes, came up, and, as usual, offered to tell our fortunes. I
could not but admire a certain degree of slattern elegance about
the baggage. Her long black silken hair was curiously plaited
in numerous small braids, and negligently put up in a pic-

04 BRACEBKIDGE HALL.

turesque style that a painter might have been proud to have
devised.

Her dress was of figured chintz, rather ragged, and not over-
clean but of a variety of most harmonious and agreeable colours ;
for these beings have a singularly fine eye for colours. Her
straw hat was in her hand, and a red cloak thrown over one arm.

The Oxonian offered at once to have his fortune told, and the
girl began with the usual volubility of her race ; but he drew
her on one side, near the hedge, as he said he had no idea of
having his secrets overheard. I saw he was talking to her
instead of she to him, and by his glancing towards us now and
then, that he was giving the baggage some private hints.
When they returned to us, he assumed a very serious air.
"Zounds!" said he, "it's very astonishing how these creatures
come by their knowledge ; this girl has told me some things
that I thought no one knew but myself !" The girl now assailed
the general: "Come, your honour," said she, "I see by your
face you're a lucky man ; but you're not happy in your mind ;
you're not, indeed, sir; but have a good heart, and give me a
good piece of silver, and I'll tell you a nice fortune."

The general had received all her approaches with a banter,
and had suffered her to get hold of his hand; but at the
mention of the piece of silver, he hemmed, looked grave, and,
turning to us, asked if we had not better continue our walk.
"Come, my master," said the girl, archly, "you'd not be in
such a hurry, if you knew all that I could tell you about a fair
lady that has a notion for you. Come, sir; old love burns
strong; there's many a one comes to see weddings, that go
away brides themselves." — Here the girl whispered something
in a low voice, at which the general coloured up, was a little flut-
tered, and suffered himself to be drawn aside under the hedge,
where he appeared to listen to her with great earnestness, and
at the end paid her half-a-crown with the air of a man that
has got the worth of his money. The girl next made her attack
upon Master Simon, who, however, was too old a bird to be
caught, knowing that it would end in an attack upon his purse,
about which he is a little sensitive. As he has a great notion,
however, of being considered a royster, he chucked her under
the chin, played her off with rather broad jokes, and put on
something of the rake-helly air, that we see now and then
assumed on the stage, by the sad-boy gentleman of the old
school. "Ah, your honour," said the girl, with a malicious leer,
"you were not in such a tantrum last year, when I told you

FORTUNE-TELLING. 95

about the widow, you know who ; but if you had taken a friend's
advice, you'd never have come away from Doncaster races with
a flea in your ear !" There was a secret sting in this speech,
that seemed quite to disconcert Master Simon. He jerked
away his hand in a pet, smacked his whip, whistled to his dogs,
and intimated that it was high time to go home. The girl, how-
ever, was determined not to lose her harvest. She now turned
upon me, and, as I have a weakness of spirit where there is a
pretty face concerned, she soon wheedled me out of my money,
and, hi return, read me a fortune ; which, if it prove true, and I
am determined to believe it, will make me one of the luckiest
men in the chronicles of Cupid.

I saw that the Oxonian was at the bottom of all this oracular
mystery, and was disposed to amuse himself with the general,
whose tender approaches to the widow have attracted the
notice of the wag. I was a little curious, however, to know
the meaning of the dark hints which had so suddenly discon-
certed Master Simon ; and took occasion to fall in the rear with
the Oxonian on our way home, when he laughed heartily at my
questions, and gave me ample information on the subject.

The truth of the matter is, that Master Simon has met with
a sad rebuff since my Christmas visit to the Hall. He used at
that tune to be joked about a widow, a fine dashing woman, as
he privately informed me. I had supposed the pleasure he
betrayed on these occasions resulted from the usual fondness
of old bachelors for being teased about getting married, and
about flirting, and being fickle and false-hearted. I am assured,
however, that Master Simon had really persuaded himself the
widow had a kindness for him ; in consequence of which he
had been at some extraordinary expense in new clothes, and had
actually got Frank Bracebridge to order him a coat from Stultz.
He began to throw out hints about the importance of a man's
settling himself in life before he grew old ; he would look grave,
whenever the widow and matrimony were mentioned in the
same sentence ; and privately asked the opinion of the Squire
and parson about the prudence of marrying a widow with a
rich jointure, but who had several children.

An important member of a great family connexion cannot
harp much upon the theme of matrimony, without its taking
wind ; and it soon got buzzed about that Mr. Simon Bracebridge
was actually gone to Doncaster races, with a new horse; but
that he meant to return in a curricle with a lady by his side.
Master Simon did, indeed, go to the races, and that with a new

96 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

horse ; and the dashing widow did make her appearance in a
curricle ; but it was unfortunately driven by a strapping young
Irish dragoon, with whom even Master Simon's self-complacency
would not allow him to venture into competition, and to whom
she was married shortly after.

It was a matter of sore chagrin to Master Simon for several
months, having never before been fully committed. The dull-
est head in the family had a joke upon him ; and there is no
one that likes less to be bantered than an absolute joker. He
took refuge for a time at Lady Lillycraft's, until the matter
should blow over ; and occupied himself by looking over her
accounts, regulating the village choir, and inculcating loyalty
into a pet bulfinch, by teaching him to whistle ' ' God save the
King."

He has now pretty nearly recovered from the mortification ;
holds up his head, and laughs as much as any one ; again affects
to pity married men, and is particularly facetious about widows,
when Lady Lillycraft is not by. His only time of trial is when
the general gets hold of him, who is infinitely heavy and per-
severing in his waggery, and will interweave a dull joke through
the various topics of a whole dinner-time. Master Simon often
parries these attacks by a stanza from his old work of "Cupid's
Solicitor for Love:"

" Tis in vain to wooe a widow over long,

In once or twice her mind you may perceive;
Widows are subtle, be they old or young.
And by their wiles young men they will deceive."

LOVE-CHARMS.

Come, do not weep, my girl,

Forget him, pretty Pensiveness; there will

Come others, every day, as good as he.— SIB J. SUCKLING.

THE approach of a wedding in a family is always an event of
great importance, but particularly so in a household like this,
in a retired part of the country. Master Simon, who is a
pervading spirit, and, through means of the butler and house-
keeper, knows every thing that goes forward, tells me that
the maid-servants are continually trying their fortunes, and
that the servants'-hall has of late been quite a scene of incan-
tation.

LOVE-CSAttMS. 97

It is amusing to notice how the oddities of the head of a
family flow down through all the branches. The Squire, in the
indulgence of his love of every tiling that smacks of old times,
has held so many grave conversations with the parson at table,
about popular superstitions and traditional rites, that they
have been carried from the parlour to the kitchen by the listen-
ing domestics, and, being apparently sanctioned by such high
authority, the whole house has become infected by them.

The servants are all versed in the common modes of trying
luck, and the charms to insure constancy. They read their
fortunes by drawing strokes in the ashes, or by repeating a
form of words, and looking in a pail of water. St. Mark's Eve,
I am told, was a busy time with them ; being an appointed night
for certain mystic ceremonies. Several of them sowed hemp-
seed to be reaped by their true lovers ; and they even ventured
upon the solemn and fearful preparation of the dumb-cake.
This must be done fasting, and in silence. The ingredients are
handed down in traditional form: " An eggshell full of salt, an
eggshell full of malt, and an eggshell full of barley-meal. " When
the cake is ready, it is put upon a pan over the fire, and the
future husband will appear, turn the cake, and retire ; but if a
word is spoken or a fast is broken during this awful ceremony,
there is no knowing what horrible consequences would ensue !

The experiments, in the present instance, came to no result ;
they that sowed the hemp-seed forgot the magic rhyme that
they were to pronounce— so the true lover never appeared ; and
as to the dumb-cake, what between the awful stillness they had
to keep, and the aw fulness of the midnight hour, their hearts
failed them when they had put the cake in the pan ; so that, on
the striking of the great house-clock in the servants'-hall, they
were seized with a sudden panic, and ran out of the room, to
which they did not return until morning, when they found the
mystic cake burnt to a cinder.

The most persevering at these spells, however, is Phoebe
Wilkins, the housekeeper's niece. As she is a kind of privi-
leged personage, and rather idle, she has more time to occupy
herself with these matters. She has always had her head full
of love and matrimony. She knows the dream-book by heart,
and is quite an oracle among the little girls of the family,
who always come to her to interpret their dreams in the morn-
ings.

During the present gayety of the house, however, the poor
girl has worn a face full of trouble ; and, to use the house-

98 SRACEBIUDGE HALL.

keeper's \vords, "has fallen into a sad hystericky way lately."
It seems that she was born and brought up in the village,
where her father was parish-clerk, and she was an early play-
mate and sweetheart of young Jack Tibbets. Since she has
come to li ve at the Hall, however, her head has been a little
turned. Being very pretty, and naturally genteel, she has
been much noticed and indulged ; and being the housekeeper's
niece, she has held an equivocal station between a servant and
a companion. She has learnt something of fashions and notions
among the young ladies, which have effected quite a metamor-
phosis; insomuch that her finery at church on Sundays has
given mortal offence to her former intimates in the village.
This has occasioned the misrepresentations which have
awakened the implacable family pride of Dame Tibbets. But
what is worse, Phoebe, having a spice of coquetry in her dis-
position, showed it on one or two occasions to her lover, which
produced a downright quarrel ; and Jack, being very proud and
fiery, has absolutely turned his back upon her for several suc-
cessive Sundays.

The poor girl is full of sorrow and repentance, and would fain
make up with her lover ; but he feels his security, and stands
aloof. In this he is doubtless encouraged by his mother, who
is continually reminding him what he owes to his family ; for
this same family pride seems doomed to be the eternal bane of
lovers.

As I hate to see a pretty face in trouble, I have felt quite
concerned for the luckless Phoebe, ever since I heard her story.
It is a sad thing to be thwarted in love at any time, but par-
ticularly so at this tender season of the year, when every living
thing, even to the very butterfly, is sporting with its mate ; and
the green fields, and the budding groves, and the singing of the
birds, and the sweet smell of the flowers, are enough to turn the
head of a love-sick girl. I am told that the coolness of young
Ready-Money lies very heavy at poor Phoebe's heart. Instead
of singing about the house as formerly, she goes about pale and
sighing, and is apt to break into tears when her companions are
full of merriment.

Mrs. Hannah, the vestal gentlewoman of my Lady Lillycraft,
has had long talks and walks with Phoebe, up and down tho
avenue of an evening; and has endeavoured to squeeze some of
her own verjuice into the other's milky nature. She speaks
with contempt and abhorrence of the whole sex, and advises
Phoebe to despise all the men as heartily as she does. Bui

THE LIBRARY. 00

Phoebe's loving temper is not to be curdled ; she has no such
tiling as hatred or contempt for mankind in her whole compo-
sition. She has all the simple fondness of heart of poor, weak,
loving woman ; and her only thoughts at present are how to
conciliate and reclaim her wayward swain.

The spells and love-charms, which are matters of sport to the
other domestics, are serious concerns with this love-stricken
damsel. She is continually trying her fortune in a variety of
ways. I am told that she has absolutely fasted for six
Wednesdays and three Fridays successively, having under-
stood that it was a sovereign charm to insure being married
to one's liking within the year. She carries about, also, a lock
of her sweetheart's hair, and a riband he once gave her, being
a mode of producing constancy in a lover. She even went so
far as to try her fortune by the moon, which has always had
much to do with lovers' dreams and fancies. For this purpose,
she went out in the night of the full moon, knelt on a stone
in the meadow, and repeated the old traditional rhyme :

" All hail to thee, moon, all hail to thee;
I pray thee, good moon, now show to me
The youth who my future husband shall be,"

When she came back to the house, she was faint and pale,
and went immediately to bed. The next morning she told the
porter's wife that she had seen some one close by the hedge
in the meadow, which she was sure was young Tibbets ; at any
rate, she had dreamt of him all night ; both of which, the old
dame assured her, were most happy signs. It has since turned
out that the person in the meadow was old Christy, the hunts-
man, who was walking his nightly rounds with the great stag-
hound; so that Phcebe's faith in the charm is completely
shaken.

THE LIBRAEY.

YESTERDAY the fair Julia made her first appearance down-
stairs since her accident; and the sight of her spread an uni-
versal cheerfulness through the household. She was extremely
pale, however, and could not walk without pain and difficulty.
She was assisted, therefore, to a sofa in the library, which is
pleasant and retired, looking out among trees ; and so quiet,

100 SKACKSltTT)GE RAIL.

that the little hirds come hopping upon the -windows, and peer-
ing curiously into the apartment. Here several of the family
gathered round, and devised means to amuse her, and make
the day pass pleasantly. Lady Lillycraft lamented the want
of some new novel to while away the time ; and was almost in
a pet, because the " Author of Waverley" had not produced a
Work for the last three months.

! There was a motion made to call on the parson for some of
his old legends or ghost stories ; but to this Lady Lillycraft ob-
jected, as they were apt to give her the vapours. General Har-
bottle gave a minute account, for the sixth time, of the disaster
of a friend in India, who had his leg bitten off by a tiger, whilst
he was hunting ; and was proceeding to menace the company
with a chapter or two about Tippoo Saib.

At length the captain bethought himself and said, he believed
he had a manuscript tale lying in one corner of his campaign-
ing trunk, which, if he could find, and the company were
desirous, he would read to them. The offer was eagerly
accepted. He retired, and soon returned with a roll of blotted
manuscript, in a very gentlemanlike, but nearly illegible, hand,
and a great part written on cartridge-paper.

"It is one of the scribblings," said he, " of my poor friend,
Charles Lightly, of the dragoons. He was a curious, romantic,
studious, fanciful fellow; the favourite, and often the uncon-
scious butt of his fellow-officers, who entertained themselves
with his eccentricities. He was in some of the hardest service
in the peninsula, and distinguished himself by his gallantry.
When the intervals of duty permitted, he was fond of roving
about the country, visiting noted places, and was extremely
fond of Moorish ruins. When at his quarters, he was a great
scribbler, and passed much of his leisure with his pen in his
[hand.

" As I was a much younger officer, and a very young man,
he took me, in a manner, under his care, and we became close
friends. He used often to read his writings to me, having a
groat confidence in my taste, for I always praised them.
Poor fellow ! he was shot down close by me, at Waterloo. We
lay wounded together for some time, during a hard contest
that took place near at hand. As I was least hurt, I tried to
relieve him, and to stanch the blood which flowed from a
wound in his breast. He lay with his head in my lap, and
looked up thankfully in my face, but shook his head faintly,
and made a sign that it was ail over with him; and, indeed, ho

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 101

died a few minutes afterwards, just as our men had repulsed
the enemy, and came to our relief. I have his favourite dog and
his pistols to this day, and sSvSral of j his manuscripts, which he
gave to me at different tin3.es.' ^The-'one I 'am now going to
read, is a tale which he said he yrot^in-Suaii^^ijriiag the time
that he lay ill of a wound, re(/eiy£Pl atSalam'aac'aJ'"'

We now arranged ourselves to hear the story. The captain
seated himself on the sofa, beside the fair Julia, who I had
noticed to be somewhat affected by the picture he had care-
lessly drawn of wounds and dangers in a field of battle. She
now leaned her arm fondly on his shoulder, and her eye glis-
tened as it rested on the manuscript of the poor literary
dragoon. Lady Lillycraft buried herself in a deep, well-
cushioned elbow-chair. Her dogs were nestled on soft mats at
her feet ; and the gallant general took his station in an arm-
chair, at her side, and toyed with her elegantly ornamented
work-bag. The rest of the circle being all equally well accom-
modated, the captain began his story ; a copy of which I have
procured for the benefit of the reader.

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA.

What a life do I lead with iny master; nothing but blowing of bellowes, beating of
spirits, and scraping of croslets 1 It is a very secret science, for none almost can
understand the language of it. Sublimation, almigation, calcination, rubiflcation,
albiflcation, and fermentation; with as many termes impossible to be uttered as the
arte to be compassed.— LILLY'S Gallathea.

ONCE upon a time, in the ancient city of Granada, there
sojourned a young man of the name of Antonio de Castros.
He wore the garb of a student of Salamanca, and was pursuing
a course of reading in the library of the university ; and, at in-
tervals of leisure, indulging his curiosity by examining those
remains of Moorish magnificence for which Granada is re-
nowned.

"Whilst occupied in his studies, he frequently noticed an old
man of a singular appearance, who was likewise a visitor to
the library. He was lean and withered, though apparently
more from study than from age. His eyes, though bright and
visionary, were sunk in his head, and thrown into shade by
overhanging eyebrows. His dress was always the same: a

102 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

black doublet; a short black cloak, v&y rusty and threadbare
a small ruff and a large overshadowing hat.

His appetite for knowledge, $ee.med insatiable. He would
pass whole days' in the. library,: absorbed in study, consulting a
multiplicity pi j*u>korsfla8 though-, he were pursuing some
interesting* feCiij^V ."through, all-. Its ramifications; so that, in
general, when evening came, he was almost buried among
books and manuscripts.

The curiosity of Anton? o was excited, and he inquired of the
attendants concerning the stranger. No one could give him
any information, excepting that he had been for some time
past a casual frequenter of the library ; that his reading lay
chiefly among works treating of the occult sciences, and that
he was particularly curious in his inquiries after Arabian
manuscripts. They added, that he never held communication
with anyone, excepting to ask for particular works ; that, after
a fit of studious application, he would disappear for several
days, and even weeks, and when he revisited the library, he
would look more withered and haggard than ever. The student
felt interested by this account ; he was leading rather a desul-
tory lif e, and had all that capricious curiosity which springs up
in idleness. He determined to make himself acquainted with
this book- worm, and find out who and what he was.

The next time that he saw the old man at the library, he
commenced his approaches by requesting permission to look
into one of the volumes with which the unknown appeared to
have done. The latter merely bowed his head, in token of
assent. After pretending to look through the volume with
great attention, he returned it with many acknowledgments.
The stranger made no reply.

"May I ask, senor," said Antonio, with some hesitation,
" may I ask what you are searching after in all these books?"

The old man raised his head, with an expression of surprise,
at having his studies interrupted for the first time, and by so
intrusive a question. He surveyed the student with a side
glance from head to foot: " Wisdom, my son," said he, calmly;
"and the search requires every moment of my attention." He
then cast his eyes upon his book, and resumed his studies.

"But, father," said Antonio, "cannot you spare a moment to
point out the road to others? It is to experienced travellers
like you, that we strangers in the paths of knowledge must
look for directions on our journey."

The stranger looked disturbed : " I have not time enough, my

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 103

eon, to learn," said he, "much less to teach. I am ignorant
myself of the path of true knowledge ; how then can I show it
to others?"

"Well, but, father—"

" Senor," said the old man, mildly, but earnestly, " you must
see that I have but few steps more to the grave. In that short
space have I to accomplish the whole business of my existence.
I have no time for words ; every word is as one grain of sand
of my glass wasted. Suffer me to be alone."

There was no replying to so complete a closing of the door of
intimacy. The student found himself calmly but totally
repulsed. Though curious and inquisitive, yet he was naturally
modest, and on after-thoughts he blushed at his own intrusion.
His mind soon became occupied by other objects. He passed
several days wandering among the mouldering piles of Moorish
architecture, those melancholy monuments of an elegant and
voluptuous people. He paced the deserted halls of the Alham-
bra, the paradise of the Moorish kings. He visited the great
court of the lions, famous for the perfidious massacre of the
gallant Abencerrages. He gazed with admiration at its mosaic
cupolas, gorgeously painted in gold and azure; its basins of
marble, its alabaster vase, supported by lions, and storied with
inscriptions.

His imagination kindled as he wandered among these scenes.
They were calculated to awaken all the enthusiasm of a youth-
ful mind. Most of the halls have anciently been beautified by
fountains. The fine taste of the Arabs delighted in the spark-
ling purity and reviving freshness of water ; and they erected,
as it were, altars on every side, to that delicate element. Poe-
try mingles with architecture in the Alhambra. It breathes
along the very walls. Wherever Antonio turned his eye, he
beheld inscriptions in Arabic, wherein the perpetuity of Moorish
power and splendour within these walls was confidently pre-
dicted. Alas ! how has the prophecy been falsified ! Many of
the basins, where the fountains had once thrown up their spark-
ling showers, were dry and dusty. Some of the palaces were
turned into gloomy convents, and the barefoot monk paced
through those courts, which had once glittered with the array,
and echoed to the music, of Moorish chivalry.

In the course of his rambles, the student more than once
encountered the old man of the library. He was always alone,
and so full of thought as not to notice any one about him. He
appeared to be intent upon studying those half -buried inscrip-

104 • BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

tions, which are found, here and there, among the Moorish
ruins, and seem to murmur from the earth the tale of former
greatness. The greater part of these have since been trans-
lated ; but they were supposed by many at the tune, to contain
symbolical revelations, and golden maxims of the Arabian sagea
and astrologers. As Antonio saw the stranger apparently
deciphering these inscriptions, he felt an eager longing to make
his acquaintance, and to participate in his curious researches ;
but the repulse he had met with at the library deterred him
from making any further advances.

He had directed his steps one evening to the sacred mount,
which overlooks the beautiful valley watered by the Darro, the
fertile plain of the Vega, and all that rich diversity of vale
and mountain that surrounds Granada with an earthly para-
dise. It was twilight when he found himself at the place,
where, at the present day, are situated the chapels, known by
the name of the Sacred Furnaces. They are so called from
grottoes, in which some of the primitive saints are said to have
been burnt. At the time of Antonio's visit, the place was an
object of much curiosity. In an excavation of these grottoes,
several manuscripts had recently been discovered, engraved
on plates of lead. They were written in the Arabian language,
excepting one, which was in unknown characters. The Pope
had issued a bull, forbidding any one, under pain of excom-
munication, to speak of these manuscripts. The prohibition
had only excited the greater curiosity; and many reports
were whispered about, that these manuscripts contained trea-
sures of dark and forbidden knowledge.

As Antonio was examining the place from whence these mys-
terious manuscripts had been drawn, he again observed the
old man of the library wandering among the ruins. His
curiosity was now fully awakened ; the time and place served
to stimulate it. He resolved to watch this groper after secret
and forgotten lore, and to trace him to his habitation. There
was something like adventure in the thing, that charmed his
romantic disposition. He followed the stranger, therefore, at
a little distance ; at first cautiously, but he soon observed him
to be so wrapped in his own thoughts, as to take little heed of
external objects.

They passed along the skirts of the mountain, and then by
the shady banks of the Darro. They pursued their way, for
some distance from Granada, along a lonely road that led
among the hills. The gloom of evening was gathering, and it

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 105

was quite dark when the stranger stopped at the portal of a
solitary mansion.

It appeared to be a mere wing, or ruined fragment, of what
had once been a pile of some consequence. The walls were of
great thickness; the windows narrow, and generally secured
by iron bars. The door was of planks, studded with iron
spikes, and had been of great strength, though at present it
was much decayed. At one end of the mansion was a ruinous
tower, in the Moorish style of architecture. The edifice had
probably been a country retreat, or castle of pleasure, during
the occupation of Granada by the Moors, and rendered suffi-
ciently strong to withstand any casual assault in those warlike
times.

The old man knocked at the portal. A light appeared at a
small window just above it, and a female head looked out : it
might have served as a model for one of Raphael's saints.
The hair was beautifully braided, and gathered in a silken net;
and the complexion, as well as could be judged from the light,
was that soft, rich brunette, so becoming in southern beauty.

"It is I, my child," said the old man. The face instantly
disappeared, and soon after a wicket-door in the large portal
opened. Antonio, who had ventured near to the building,
caught a transient sight of a delicate female form. A pair of
fine black eyes darted a look of surprise at seeing a stranger
hovering near, and the door was precipitately closed.

There was something in this sudden gleam of beauty that
wonderfully struck the imagination of the student. It was
like a brilliant, flashing from its dark casket. He sauntered
about, regarding the gloomy pile with increasing interest. A
few simple, wild notes, from among some rocks and trees at a
little distance, attracted his attention. He found there a
group of Gitanas, a vagabond gipsy race, which at that time
abounded in Spain, and lived in hovels and caves of the hills
about the neighbourhood of Granada. Some were busy about a
fire, and others were listening to the uncouth music which one
of their companions, seated on a ledge of the rock, was making
with a split reed.

Antonio endeavoured to obtain some information of them,
concerning the old building and its inhabitants. The one who
appeared to be their spokesman was a gaunt fellow, with a
subtle gait, a whispering voice, and a sinister roll of the eye.
He shrugged his shoulders on the student's inquiries, and said
that all was not right in that building. An old man inhabited

106 BRACKBIUDGE HALL.

it, whom nobody knew, and whose family appeared to be only a
daughter and a female servant. He and his companions, he
added, lived up among the neighbouring hills ; and as they had
been about at night, they had often seen strange lights, and
heard strange sounds from the tower. Some of the country
people, who worked in the vineyards among the hills, believed
the old man to be one that dealt in the black art, and were not
over-fond of passing near the tower at night; "but for our
parts," said the Gitano, " we are not a people that trouble our-
selves much with fears of that kind. "

The student endeavoured to gain more precise information,
but they had none to furnish him. They began to be solicitous
for a compensation for what they had already imparted ; and,
recollecting the loneliness of the place, and the vagabond
character of his companions, he was glad to give them a gratu-
ity, and to hasten homewards.

He sat down to his studies, but his brain was too full of what
he had seen and heard ; his eye was upon the page, but his
fancy still returned to the tower; and he was continually
picturing the little window, with the beautiful head peeping
out ; or the door half open, and the nymph-like form within.
He retired to bed, but the same object haunted his dreams.
He was young and susceptible; and the excited state of his
feelings, from wandering among the abodes of departed grace
and gallantry, had predisposed him for a sudden impression
from female beauty.

The next morning, he strolled again in the direction of the
tower. It was still more forlorn, by the broad glare of day,
than in the gloom of evening. The walls were crumbling, and
weeds and moss were growing in every crevice. It had the
look of a prison, rather than a dwelling-house. In one angle,
however, he remarked a window which seemed an exception
to the surrounding squalidness. There was a curtain drawn
within it, and flowers standing on the window-stone. Whilst
he was looking at it, the curtain was partially withdrawn, and
a delicate white arm, of the most beautiful roundness, was
put forth to water the flowers.

The student made a noise, to attract the attention of the fair
florist. He succeeded. The curtain was further drawn, and
he had a glance of the same lovely face he had seen the even-
ing before ; it was but a mere glance — the curtain again fell,
and the casement closed. All this was calculated to excite the
feelings of a romantic youth. Had he seen the unknown under

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 107

other circumstances, it is probable that he would not have been
struck with her beauty ; but this appearance of being shut up
and kept apart, gave her the value of a treasured gem. He
passed and repassed before the house several times in the
course of the day, but saw nothing more. He was there again,
in the evening. The whole aspect of the house was dreary.
The narrow windows emitted no rays of cheerful light, to indi-
cate that there was social life within. Antonio listened at the
portal, but no sound of voices reached his ear. Just then he
heard the clapping to of a distant door, and fearing to be de-
tected in the unworthy act of eavesdropping, he precipitately
drew off to the opposite side of the road, and stood in the sha-
dow of a ruined archway.

He now remarked a light from a window in the tower. It
was fitful and changeable ; commonly feeble and yellowish, as
if from a lamp ; with an occasional glare of some vivid metallic
colour, followed by a dusky glow. A column of dense smoke
would now and then rise in the air, and hang bike a canopy
over the tower. There was altogether such a loneliness and
seeming mystery about the building and its inhabitants, that
Antonio was half inclined to indulge the country people's
notions, and to fancy it the den of some powerful sorcerer, and
the fair damsel he had seen to be some spell-bound beauty.

After some time had elapsed, a light appeared in the window
where he had seen the beautiful arm. The curtain was down,
but it was so thin that he could perceive the shadow of some
one passing and repassing between it and the light. He
fancied that he could distinguish that the form was delicate ;
and, from the alacrity of its movements, it was evidently
youthful. He had not a doubt but this was the bedc-hamber of
his beautiful unknown.

Presently he heard the sound of a guitar, and a female voice
singing. He drew near cautiously, and listened. It was st
plaintive Moorish ballad, and he recognized in it the lamenta-
tions of one of the Abencerrages on leaving the walls of lovely
Granada. It was full of passion and tenderness. It spoke of
the delights of early life ; the hours of love it had enjoyed on
the banks of the Darro, and among the blissful abodes of the
Alhambra. It bewailed the fallen honours of the Abencerrages,
and imprecated vengeance on their oppressors. Antonio was
affected by the music. It singularly coincided with the place.
It was like the voice of past times echoed in the present, and
breathing among the monuments of its departed glory.

108 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

The voice ceased ; after a time the Light disappeared, and all
was still. "She sleeps!" said Antonio, fondJy. He lingered
about the building, with the devotion with which a lover
lingers about the bower of sleeping beauty. The rising moon
threw its silver beams on the gray walls, and glittered on the
casement. The late gloomy landscape gradually became
flooded with its radiance. Finding, therefore, that he could no
longer move about hi obscurity, and fearful that his loiterings
might be observed, he reluctantly retired.

The curiosity which had at first drawn the young man to the
tower, was now seconded by feelings of a more romantic kind.
His studies were almost entirely abandoned. He maintained a
kind of blockade of the old mansion; he would take a book
with him, and pass a great part of the day under the trees in its
vicinity ; keeping a vigilant eye upon it, and endeavouring to
ascertain what were the walks of his mysterious charmer. He
found, however, that she never went out except to mass, when
she was accompanied by her father. He waited at the door of
the church, and offered her the holy water, in the hope of
touching her hand; a little office of gallantry common in
Catholic countries. She, however, modestly declined without
raising her eyes to see who made the offer, and always took it
herself from the font. She was attentive in her devotion ; her
eyes were never taken from the altar or the priest ; and, on
returning home, her countenance was almost entirely con-
cealed by her mantilla.

Antonio had now carried on the pursuit for several days, and
was hourly getting more and more interested in the chase, but
never a step nearer to the game. His lurkings about the house
had probably been noticed, for he no longer saw the fair face
at the window, nor the white arm put forth to water the
flowers. His only consolation was to repair nightly to his post
of observation, and listen to her warbling ; and if by chance he
could catch a sight of her shadow, passing and repassing before
the window, he thought himself most fortunate.

As he was indulging in one of these evening vigils, which were
complete revels of the imagination, the sound of approaching
footsteps made him withdraw into the deep shadow of the
ruined archway opposite to the tower. A cavalier approached,
wrapped hi a large Spanish cloak. He paused under the win-
dow of the tower, and after a little while began a serenade,
accompanied by his guitar, in the usual style of Spanish gal-
lantry. His voice was rich and manly ; he touched the instru-

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 100

ment with skill, and sang with amorous and impassioned elo-
quence. The plume of his hat was buckled by jewels that
sparkled in the moon-beams ; and as he played on the guitar,
his cloak f ailing off from one shoulder, showed him to be richly
dressed. It was evident that he was a person of rank.

The idea now flashed across Antonio's mind, that the affec-
tions of his unknown beauty might be engaged. She was
young, and doubtless susceptible ; and it was not in the nature
of Spanish females to be deaf and insensible to music and admi-
ration. The surmise brought with it a feeling of dreariness.
There was a pleasant dream of several days suddenly dispelled.
He had never before experienced any thing of the tender pas-
sion; and, as its morning dreams are always delightful, he
would fain have continued in the delusion.

"But what have I to do with her attachments?" thought he;
"I have no claim on her heart, nor even on her acquaintance.
How do I know that she is worthy of affection? Or if she is,
must not so gallant a lover as this, with his jewels, his rank,
and his detestable music, have completely captivated her?
What idle humour is this that I have fallen into? I must again
to my books. Study, study, will soon chase away all these idle
fancies !"

The more he thought, however, the more he became entangled
in the spell which his lively imagination had woven round him ;
and now that a rival had appeared, in addition to the other
obstacles that environed this enchanted beauty, she appeared
ten times more lovely and desirable. It was some slight conso-
lation to him to perceive that the gallantry of the unknown
met with no apparent return from the tower. The light at the
window was extinguished. The curtain remained undrawn,
and none of the customary signals were given to intimate that
the serenade was accepted.

The cavalier lingered for some time about the place, and sang
several other tender airs with a taste and feeling that made
Antonio's heart ache ; at length he slowly retired. The student
remained with folded arms, leaning against the ruined arch,
endeavouring to summon up resolution enough to depart ; but
there was a romantic fascination, that still enchained him to the
place. "It is the last time," said he, willing to compromise
between his feelings and his judgment, "it is the last time ;
then let me enjoy the dream a few moments longer."

As his eye ranged about the old building to take a farewell
look, he observed the strangejight in the tower, which he had

BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

noticed on a former occasion. It kept beaming up, and declin
ing, as before. A pillar of smoke rose in the air, and hung in
sable volumes. It was evident the old man was busied in some
of those operations that had gained him the reputation of a
sorcerer throughout the neighbourhood.

Suddenly an intense and brilliant glare shone through the
casement, followed by a loud report, and then a fierce and
ruddy glow. A figure appeared at the window, uttering cries
of agony or alarm, but immediately disappeared, and a body
of smoke and flame whirled out of the narrow aperture. An-
tonio rushed to the portal, and knocked at it with vehemence.
He was only answered by loud shrieks, and found that the
females were already in helpless consternation. With an exer-
tion of desperate strength he forced the wicket from its hinges,
and rushed into the house.

He found himself in a small vaulted hall, and, by the light of
the moon which entered at the door, he saw a staircase to the
left. He hurried up it to a narrow corridor, through which
was rolling a volume of smoke. He found here the two females
in a frantic state of alarm ; one of them clasped her hands, and
implored him to save her father.

The corridor terminated in a spiral flight of steps, leading up
to the tower. He sprang up it to a small door, through the
chinks of which came a glow of light, and smoke was spuming
out. Ho burst it open, and found himself in an antique vaulted
chamber, furnished with a furnace and various chemical appa-
ratus. A shattered retort lay on the stone floor ; a quantity of
combustibles, nearly consumed, with various half -burnt books
and papers, were sending up an expiring flame, and filling the
chamber with stifling smoke. Just within the threshold lay
the reputed conjurer. He was bleeding, his clothes were
scorched, and he appeared lifeless. Antonio caught him up, and
bore lu'm down the stairs to a chamber, in wlu'ch there was a
light, and laid him on a bed. The female domestic was de-
spatched for such apph'ances as the house afforded ; but the
daughter threw herself frantically beside her parent, and could
not be reasoned out of her alarm. Her dress was all in disor-
der ; her dishevelled hair hung in rich confusion about her neck
and bosom, and never was there beheld a lovelier picture of
terror and affliction.

The skilful assiduities of the scholar soon produced signs of
returning animation in his patient. The old man's wounds,
though severe, were not dangerous. They had evidently been

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. HI

produced by the bursting of the retort ; in his bewilderment he
had been enveloped in the stifling metallic vapours, which had
overpowered his feeble frame, and had not Antonio arrived to
his assistance, it is possible he might never have recovered.

By slow degrees he came to his senses. He looked about
with a bewildered air at the chamber, the agitated group around,
and the student who was leaning over him.

" Where am I?" said he wildly.

At the sound of his voice, his daughter uttered a faint excla-
mation of delight. " My poor Inez!" said he, embracing her;
then, putting his hand to his head, and taking it away stained
with blood, he seemed suddenly to recollect himself, and to be
overcome with emotion.

' ' Ah !" cried he, " all is over with me ! all gone ! all vanished !
gone in a moment ! the labour of a lif etime lost !"

His daughter attempted to soothe him, but he became slight-
ly delirious, and raved incoherently about malignant demons,
and about the habitation of the green lion being destroyed.
His wounds being dressed, and such other remedies adminis-
tered as his situation required, he sunk into a state of quiet.
Antonio now turned his attention to the daughter, whose suf-
ferings had been little inferior to those of her father. Having
with great difficulty succeeded in tranquillizing her fears, he
endeavoured to prevail upon her to retire, and seek the repose
so necessary to her frame, proffering to remain by her father
until morning. "I am a stranger, " said he, "it is true, and
my offer may appear intrusive ; but I see you are lonely and
helpless, and I cannot help venturing over the limits of mere
ceremony. Should you feel any scruple or doubt, however, say
but a word, and I will instantly retire."

There was a frankness, a kindness, and a modesty, mingled
in Antonio's deportment, that inspired instant confidence ; and
his simple scholar's garb was a recommendation in the house
of poverty. The females consented to resign the sufferer to his
care, as they would be the better able to attend to him on the
morrow. On retiring, the old domestic was profuse in her
benedictions; the daughter only looked her thanks; but as
they shone through the tears that filled her fine black eyes, the
student thought them a thousand times the most eloquent.

Here, then, he was, by a singular turn of chance, completely
housed within this mysterious mansion. When left to himself,
and the bustle of the scene was over, his heart throbbed as he
looked round the chamber in which he was sitting. It was the

112 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

daughter's room, the promised land toward which he had cast
so many a longing gaze. The furniture was old, and had prob-
ably belonged to the building in its prosperous days; but
every thing was arranged with propriety. The flowers that he
had seen her attend stood in the window; a guitar leaned
against a table, on which stood a crucifix, and before it lay a
missal and a rosary. There reigned an air of purity and
serenity about this little nestling-place of innocence ; it was the
emblem of a chaste and quiet mind. Some few articles of
female dress lay on the chairs ; and there was the very bed on
which she had slept —the pillow on which her soft cheek had
reclined! The poor scholar was treading enchanted ground;
for what fairy land has more of magic in it, than the bed-
chamber of innocence and beauty ?

From various expressions of the old man in his ravings, and
from what he had noticed on a subsequent visit to the tower,
to see that the fire was extinguished, Antonio had gathered
that his patient was an alchyinist. The philosopher's stone
•was an object eagerly sought after by visionaries in those
days; but in consequence of the superstitious prejudices of the
times, and the frequent persecutions of its votaries, they were
apt to pursue their experiments in secret ; in lonely houses, in
caverns and ruins, or in the privacy of cloistered cells.

In the course of the night, the old man had several fits of
restlessness and delirium ; he would call out upon Theophras-
tus, and Geber, and Albertus Magnus, and other sages of his
art ; and anon would murmur about fermentation and projec-
tion, until, toward daylight, he once more sunk into a salutary
sleep. When the morning sun darted his rays into the case-
ment, the fair Inez, attended by the female domestic, came
blushing into the chamber. The student now took his leave,
having himself need of repose, but obtaining ready permission
to return and inquire after the sufferer.

When he called again, he found the alchyinist languid and in
pain, but apparently suffering more in mind than in body. Hi.s
delirium had left him, and he had been informed of the particu-
lars of his deliverance, and of the subsequent attentions of the
scholar. He could do little more than look his thanks, but
Antonio did not require them ; his own heart repaid him for
all that he had done, and he almost rejoiced in the disaster that
had trained him an enti-;i;i' •«> into this mysterious habitation.
The alchymist was so helpless as to need much assistance;
Antonio remained with nun, therefore, the greater part of the

T3E STUDENT Of SALAMANCA. H3

day. He repeated his visit the next day, and the next. Every
day his company seemed more pleasing to the invalid; and
every day he felt his interest in the latter increasing. Perhaps
the presence of the daughter might have been at the bottom of
this solicitude.

He had frequent and long conversations with the alchymist.
He found him, as men of his pursuits were apt to be, a mixture
of enthusiasm and simplicity ; of curious and extensive reading
on points of little utility, with great inattention to the every-
day occurrences of life, and profound ignorance of the world.
He was deeply versed in singular and obscure branches of
knowledge, and much given to visionary speculations. Anto-
nio, whose mind was of a romantic cast, had himself given
some attention to the occult sciences, and he entered upon these
themes with an ardour that delighted the philosopher. Their
conversations frequently turned upon astrology, divination,
and the great secret. The old man would forget his aches and
wounds, rise up like a spectre in his bed, and kindle into elo-
quence on his favourite topics. When gently admonished of his
situation, it would but prompt him to another sally of thought.

" Alas, my son !" he would say, "is not this very decrepitude
and suffering another proof of the importance of those secrets
with which we are surrounded? Why are we trammelled by
disease, withered by old age, and our spirits quenched, as it
were, within us, but because we have lost those secrets of life
and youth which were known to our parents before their fall ?
To regain these, have philosophers been ever since aspiring;
but just as they are on the point of securing the precious
secrets for ever, the brief period of lif e is at an end ; they die,
and with them all their wisdom and experience. ' Nothing,' as
De Nuysment observes, ' nothing is wanting for man's perfec-
tion but a longer life, less crossed with sorrows and maladies,
to the attaining of the full and perfect knowledge of things.' "

At length Antonio so far gained on the heart of his patient,
as to draw from him the outlines of his story.

Felix de Vasques, the alchymist, was a native of Castile, and
of an ancient and honourable line. Early in lif e he had married
a beautiful female, a descendant from one of the Moorish fami-
lies. The marriage displeased his father, who considered the
pure Spanish blood contaminated by this foreign mixture. It
is true, the lady traced her descent from one of the Abencer-
rages, the most gallant of Moorish cavaliers, who had embraced
the Christian faith on being exiled from the walls of Granada.

114 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

The injured pride of the father, however, was not to be
appeased. He never savr his son afterwards, and on dying
left him but a scanty portion of his estate ; bequeathing the resi-
due, in the piety and bitterness of his heart, to the erection of
convents, and the performance of masses for souLi in purga-
tory. Don Felix resided for a long time in the neighbourhood
of Valladolid, in a state of embarrassment and obscurity. He
devoted himself to intense study, having, while at the univer-
sity of Salamanca, imbibed a taste for the secret sciences. He
was enthusiastic and speculative ; he went on from one branch
of knowledge to another, until he became zealous in the search
after the grand Arcanum.

He had at first engaged in the pursuit with the hopes of rais-
ing himself from his present obscurity, and resuming the rank
and dignity to which his birth entitled him ; but, as usual, it
ended in absorbing every thought, and becoming the busi-
ness of his existence. He was at length aroused from this
mental abstraction, by the calamities of his household. A
malignant fever swept off his wife and all his children, except-
ing an infant daughter. These losses for a time overwhelmed
and stupefied him. His home had in a manner died away from
around him, and he felt lonely and forlorn. When his spirit
revived within him, he determined to abandon the scene of his
humiliation and disaster; to bear away the child that was still
left him beyond the scene of contagion, and never to return
to Castile until he should be enabled to reclaim the honours ol
his line.

He had ever since been wandering and unsettled in his abode ;
— sometimes the resident of populous cities, at other times ol
alsolute solitudes. He had searched libraries, meditated on
inscriptions, visited adepts of different countries, and sought
to gather and concentrate the rays which had been thrown by
various minds upon the secrets of alchymy. He had at one
time travelled quite to Padua to search for the manuscripts of
Pietro d'Abano, and to inspect an urn which had been dug up
near Este, supposed to have been buried by Maximus Olybius,
and to have contained the grand elixir.*

* This urn was found in 1533. It contained a lesser one, in which was a burning
lamp betwixt two small vials, the one of gold, the other of silver, both of them full
of a very clear liquor. On the largest was an inscription, stating that Maxiinu*
Olybius shut up in this small vessel elements which he had prepaml with trrcat toil.
There were many disquisitions among the learned on the subject. It was th>- m..-ct
received opinion, that this Mazimui Olybius was an inhabitant of Padua, that he

TSE STUDENT 0V SALAMANCA. H5

While at Padua, he had met with an adept versed in Arabian
lore, who talked of the invaluable manuscripts that must re-
main in the Spanish libraries, preserved from the spoils of the
Moorish academies and universities ; of the probability of meet"
ing with precious unpublished writings of Geber, and Alf ara-
bius, and Avicenna, the great physicians of the Arabian schools,
who, it was well known, had treated much of alchymy ; but,
above all, he spoke of the Arabian tablets of lead, which had
recently been dug up in the neighbourhood of Granada, and
which, it was confidently believed among adepts, contained
the lost secrets of the art.

The indefatigable alchymist once more bent his steps for
Spain, full of renovated hope. He had made his way to Gra-
nada : he had wearied himself in the study of Arabic, in decipher-
ing inscriptions, in rummaging libraries, and exploring every
possible trace left by the Arabian sages.

In all his wanderings, he had been accompanied by Inez
through the rough and the smooth, the pleasant and the ad-
verse; never complaining, but rather seeking to soothe his
cares by her innocent and playful caresses. Her instruction
had been the employment and the delight of his hours of relax-
ation. She had grown up while they were wandering, and had
scarcely ever known any home but by his side. He was family,
friends, home, everything to her. He had carried her in his
arms, when they first began their wayfaring ; had nestled her,
as an eagle does its young, among the rocky heights of the Sierra
Morena ; she had sported about him in childhood, in the soli-
tudes of the Bateucas ; had followed him, as a lamb does the
shepherd, over the rugged Pyrenees, and into the fair plains
of Languedoc ; and now she was grown up to support his feeble
steps among the ruined abodes of her maternal ancestors.

His property had gradually wasted away, in the course of
his travels and his experiments. Still hope, the constant at-
tendant of the alchymist, had led him on ; ever on the point of
reaping the reward of his labours, and ever disappointed. With
the credulity that often attended his art, he attributed many
of his disappointments to the machination of the malignant
spirits that beset the paths of the alchymist and torment him
in his solitary labours. " It is their constant endeavour, " he ob-

had discovered the great secret, and that these vessels contained liquor, one to
transmute metals to gold, and other to silver. The peasants who found the urns,
imagining this precious liquor to be common water, spilt every drop, so that the
Art of transmuting metals remains as much a secret as ever.

116 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

served, "to close up every avenue to those sublime tvuths,
which would enable man to rise above the abject state into
which he has fallen, and to return to his original perfection."
To the evil offices of these demons, he attributed his late dis-
aster. He had been on the very verge of the glorious discovery ;
never were the indications more completely auspicious ; all was
going on prosperously, when, at the critical moment which
should have crowned his labours with success, and have placed
him at the very summit of human power and felicity, the
bursting of a retort had reduced his laboratory and himself to
ruins.

"I must now," said he, "give up at the very threshold of
success. My books and papers are burnt; my apparatus is
broken. I am too old to bear up against these evils. The
ardour that once inspired me is gone ; my poor frame is ex-
hausted by study and watchfulness, and this last misfortune
has hurried me towards the grave." He concluded in a tone
of deep dejection. Antonio endeavoured to comfort and reas-
sure him ; but the poor alchymist had for once awakened to a
consciousness of the worldly ills that were gathering around
him, and had sunk into despondency. After a pause, and some
thoughtfulness and perplexity of brow, Antonio ventured to
make a proposal.

"I have long," said he, "been filled with a love for the secret
sciences, but have felt too ignorant and diffident to give myself
up to them. You have acquired experience ; you have amassed
the knowledge of a lif etime ; it were a pity it should be thrown
away. You say you are too old to renew the toils of the labo-
ratory ; suffer me to undertake them. Add your knowledge to
my youth and activity, and what shall we not accomplish? As
a probationary fee, and a fund on which to proceed, I will bring
into the common stock a sum of gold, the residue of a legacy,
which has enabled me to complete my education. A poor scholar
cannot boast much ; but I trust we shall soon put ourselves be-
yond the reach of want ; and if we should fail, why, I must
depend, like other scholars, upon my brains to carry me through
the world."

The philosopher's spirits, however, were more depressed than
the student had imagined. This last shock, following in the
rear of so many disappointments, had almost destroyed the
reaction of his mind. The fire of an enthusiast, however, is
never so low but that it may be blown again into a flame. By
degrees, the old man was cheered and reanimated by the

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 117

ancy and ardour of his sanguine companion. He at length
agreed to accept of the services of the student, and once more
to renew his experiments. He objected, however, to using the
student's gold, notwithstanding that his own was nearly ex-
hausted; but this objection was soon overcome; the student
insisted on making it a common stock and common cause ; —
and then how absurd was any delicacy about such a trifle, with
men who looked forward to discovering the philosopher's stone 1

While, therefore, the alchymist was slowly recovering, the
student busied himself in getting the laboratory once more in
order. It was strewed with the wrecks of retorts and alembics,
with old crucibles, boxes and phials of powders and tinctures,
and half -burnt books and manuscripts.

As soon as the old man was sufficiently recovered, the studies
and experiments were renewed. The student became a privi-
leged and frequent visitor, and was indefatigable in his toils in the
laboratory. The philosopher daily derived new zeal and spirits
from the animation of his disciple. He was now enabled to pros-
ecute the enterprise with continued exertion, having so active a
coadjutor to divide the toil. While he was poring over the writ-
ings of Sandivogius, and Philalethes, and Dominus de Nuys-
ment, and endeavouring to comprehend the symbolical language
in which they have locked up their mysteries, Antonio would
occupy himself among the retorts and crucibles, and keep the
furnace in a perpetual glow.

With all his zeal, however, for the discovery of the golden
art, the feelings of the student had not cooled as to the object
that first drew him to this ruinous mansion. During the old
man's illness, he had frequent opportunities of being near the
daughter; and every day made him more sensible to her
charms. There was a pure simplicity, and an almost passive
gentleness, in her manners ; yet with all this was mingled some-
thing, whether mere maiden shyness, or a consciousness of high
descent, or a dash of Castilian pride, or perhaps all united,
that prevented undue familiarity, and made her difficult of
approach. The danger of her father, and the measures to be
taken for his relief, had at first overcome this coyness and
reserve; but as he recovered and her alarm subsided, she
seemed to shrink from the familiarity she had indulged with
the youthful stranger, and to become every day more shy and
silent.

Antonio had read many books, but this was the first volume
of womankind that he had ever studied. He had. l»een capti-

118 BRACEBRIDGE I1ALL.

rated with the very title-page; but the further he read, the
more he was delighted. She seemed formed to love ; her soft
black eye rolled languidly under its long silken lashes, and
wherever it turned, it would linger and repose; there was ten-
derness in every beam. To him alone she was reserved and
distant. Now that the common cares of the sick-room were at
an end, he saw little more of her than before his admission to
the house. Sometimes he met her on his way to and from the
laboratory, and at such times there was ever a smile and a
blush; but, after a simple salutation, she glided on and dis-
appeared.

"Tis plain," thought Antonio, "my presence is indifferent,
if not irksome to her. She has noticed my admiration, and is
determined to discourage it ; nothing but a feeling of gratitude
prevents her treating me with marked distaste — and then has
she not another lover, rich, gallant, splendid, musical? how can
I suppose she would turn her eyes from so brilliant a cavalier,
to a poor obscure student, raking among the cinders of her
father's laboratory ?"

Indeed, the idea of the amorous serenader continually
haunted his mind. He felt convinced that he was a favoured
lover; yet, if so, why did he not frequent the tower?— why did
he not make his approaches by noon-day? There was mystery
in this eavesdropping and musical courtship. Surely Inez
could not be encouraging a secret intrigue I Oh ! no ! she was
too artless, too pure, too ingenuous 1 But then the Spanish
females were so prone to love and intrigue; and music and
moonlight were so seductive, and Inez had such a tender soul
languishing in every look. — "Oh!" would the poor scholar
exclaim, clasping his hands, "oh, that I could but once behold
those loving eyes beaming on me with affection I"

It is incredible to those who have not experienced it, on what
scanty aliment human life and human love may be supported.
A dry crust, thrown now and then to a starving man, will give
him a new lease of existence ; and a faint smile, or a kind look,
bestowed at casual intervals, will keep a lover loving on, when
a man in his sober senses would despair.

When Antonio found himself alone in the laboratory, his
mind would be haunted by one of these looks, or smiles, which
he had received in passing. He would set it in every possible
light, and argue on it with all the self -pleasing, self -teasing logic
of a lover.

The country around him was enough to awaken that volup-

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. H9

tuousness of feeling so favourable to the growth of passion.
The window of the tower rose above the trees of the romantic
valley of the Darro, and looked down upon some of the love-
liest scenery of the Vega, where groves of citron and orange
were refreshed by cool springs and brooks of the purest water.
The Xenel and the Darro wound their shining streams along
the plain, and gleamed from among its bowers. The surround-
ing hills were covered with vineyards, and the mountains,
crowned with snow, seemed to melt into the blue sky. The
delicate airs that played about the tower were perfumed by the
fragrance of myrtle and orange-blossoms, and the ear was
charmed with the fond warbling of the nightingale, which, in
these happy regions, sings the whole day long. Sometimes,
too, there was the idle song of the muleteer, sauntering along
the solitary road ; or the notes of the guitar, from some group
of peasants dancing in the shade. All these were enough to
fill the head of the young lover with poetic fancies ; and Antonio
would picture to himself how he could loiter among those happy
groves, and wander by those gentle rivers, and love away his
life with Inez.

He felt at times impatient at his own weakness, and would
endeavour to brush away these cobwebs of the mind. He would
turn his thoughts, with sudden effort, to his occult studies, or
occupy himself in some perplexing process ; but often, when he
had partially succeeded in fixing his attention, the sound of
Inez's lute, or the soft notes of her voice, would come stealing
upon the stillness of the chamber, and, as it were, float-
ing round the tower. There was no great art in her per-
formance; but Antonio thought he had never heard music
comparable to this. It was perfect witchcraft to hear her
warble forth some of her national melodies ; those little Spanish
romances and Moorish ballads, that transport the hearer, in
idea, to the banks of the Guadalquivir, or the walls of the
Alhambra, and make him dream of beauties, and balconies,
and moonlight serenades.

Never was poor student more sadly beset than Antonio.
Love is a troublesome companion in a study, at the best of
times ; but in the laboratory of an alchymist, his intrusion is
terribly disastrous. Instead of attending to the retorts and
crucibles, and watching the process of some experiment
intrusted to his charge, the student would get entranced in one
of these love-dreams, from which he would often be aroused by
Borne fatal catastrophe. The philosopher, on returning from

120 . BRACEBRWQE HALL

his researches in the libraries, would find every thing gond
•wrong, and Antonio in despair over the ruins of the whole day's
work. The old man, however, took all quietly, for his had been
a life of experiment and failure.

" We must have patience, my son," would he say, " as all the
great masters that have gone before us have had. Errors, and
accidents, and delays are what we have to contend with. Did
not Pontanus err two hundred times, before he could obtain
even the matter on which to found his experiments? The great
Flamel, too, did he not labour f our-and-twenty years, before he
ascertained the first agent? What difficulties and hardships
did not Cartilaceus encounter, at the very threshold of his dis-
coveries? And Bernard de Treves, even after he had attained
a knowledge of all the requisites, was he not delayed full tliree
years? What you consider accidents, my son, are the machina-
tions of our invisible enemies. The treasures and golden secrets
of nature are surrounded by spirits hostile to man. The air
about us teems with them. They lurk in the fire of the fur-
nace, in the bottom of the crucible, and the alembic, and are
ever on the alert to take advantage of those moments when our
minds are wandering from intense meditation on the great
truth that we are seeking. We must only strive the more to
purify ourselves from those gross and earthly feelings which
becloud the soul, and prevent her from piercing into nature's
arcana."

"Alas!" thought Antonio, "if to be purified from all earthly
feeling requires that I should cease to love Inez, I fear I shall
never discover the philosopher's stone !"

In this way, matters went on for some time, at the alchy-
mist's. Day after day was sending the student's gold in vapour
up the chimney ; every blast of the furnace made him a ducat
the poorer, without apparently helping him a jot nearer to the
golden secret. Still the young man stood by, and saw piece
after piece disappearing without a murmur : he had daily an
opportunity of seeing Inez, and felt as if her favour would be
better than silver or gold, and that every smile was worth a
ducat.

Sometimes, in the cool of the evening, when the toils of the
laboratory happened to be suspended, he would walk with the
alchymist in what had once been a garden belonging to the
mansion. There were still the remains of terraces and balus-
trades, and here and there a marble urn, or mutilated statue
overturned, and buried among weeds and flowers run wild. It

TEE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 121

was the favourite resort of the alchymist in his hours of relaxa-
tion, where he would give full scope to his visionary flights.
His mind was tinctured with the Rosicrucian doctrines. He
believed in elementary beings ; some favourable, others adverse
to his pursuits; and, in the exaltation of his fancy, had often
imagined that he held communion with them in his solitary
walks, about the whispering groves and echoing walls of this
old garden.

When accompanied by Antonio, he would prolong these
evening recreations. Indeed, he sometimes did it out of con-
sideration for his disciple, for he feared lest his too close applica-
tion, and his incessant seclusion in the tower, should be injuri-
ous to his health. He was delighted and surprised by this
extraordinary zeal and perseverance in so young a tyro, and
looked upon him as destined to be one of the great luminaries
of the art. Lest the student should repine at the time lost in
these relaxations, the good alchymist would fill them up with
wholesome knowledge, in matters connected with their pursuits ;
and would walk up and down the alleys with his disciple, im-
parting oral instruction, like an ancient philosopher. In all his
visionary schemes, there breathed a spirit of lofty, though chi-
merical philanthropy, that won the admiration of the scholar.
Nothing sordid nor sensual, nothing petty nor selfish, seemed
to enter into his views, in respect to the grand discoveries he was
anticipating. On the contrary, his imagination kindled with
conceptions of widely dispensated happiness. He looked for-
ward to the time when he should be able to go about the earth,
relieving the indigent, comforting the distressed ; and, by his
unlimited means, devising and executing plans for the com-
plete extirpation of poverty, and all its attendant sufferings
and crimes. Never were grander schemes for general good, for
the distribution of boundless wealth and universal competence,
devised than by this poor, indigent alchymist in his ruined
tower.

Antonio would attend these peripatetic lectures with all the
ardour of a devotee ; but there was another circumstance which
may have given a secret charm to them. The garden was the
resort also of Inez, where she took her walks of recreation ; the
only exercise that her secluded life permitted. As Antonio was
diiteously pacing by the side of his instructor, he would often
catch a glimpse of the daughter, walking pensively about
the alleys in the soft twilight. Sometimes they would meet her
Siiexpectedly, and the heart of the student would throb with

122 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

agitation. A blush, too, would crimson the cheek of Inez, but
still she passed on and never joined them.

He had remained one evening until rather a late hour with
the alchymist in this favourite resort. It was a delightful night
after a sultry day, and the balmy air of the garden was pecu^
liarly reviving. The old man was seated on a fragment of a
pedestal, looking like a part of the ruin on which he sat. He
was edifying his pupil by long lessons of wisdom from the
stars, as they shone out with brilliant lustre in the dark-blue
vault of a southern sky ; for he was deeply versed in Behmen,
and other of the Rosicrucians, and talked much of the signa-
ture of earthly things and passing events, which may be dis-
cerned in the heavens ; of the power of the stars over corporeal
beings, and their influence on the fortunes of the sons of
men.

By degrees the moon rose and shed her gleaming light among
the groves. Antonio apparently listened with fixed attention
to the sage, but his ear was drinking in the melody of Inez's
voice, who was singing to her lute in one of the moonlight
glades of the garden. The old man, having exhausted his theme,
sat gazing in silent reverie at the heavens. Antonio could not
resist an inclination to steal a look at this coy beauty, who was
thus playing the part of the nightingale, so sequestered and
musical. Leaving the alchymist in his celestial reverie, he
stole gently along one of the alleys. The music had ceased, and
he thought he heard the sound of voices. He came to an angle
of a copse that had screened a kind of green recess, ornamented
by a marble fountain. The moon shone full upon the place,
and by its light he beheld his unknown, serenading rival at the
feet of Inez. He was detaining her by the hand, which he
covered with kisses ; but at sight of Antonio he started up and
hah* drew his sword, while Inez, disengaged, fled back to the
house.

All the jealous doubts and fears of Antonio were now con-
firmed. He did not remain to encounter the resentment of his
happy rival at being thus interrupted, but turned from the
place in sudden wretchedness of heart. That Inez should love
another, would have been misery enough ; but that she should
be capable of a dishonourable amour, shocked him to the soul.
The idea of deception in so young and apparently artless a being,
brought with it that sudden distrust in human nature, so sick-
ening to a youthful and ingenuous mind ; but when he thought
of the kind, simple parent she was deceiving, whose affections

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 123

all centred in her, he felt for a moment a sentiment of indigna-
tion, and almost of aversion.

He found the alchymist still seated in his visionary contem-
plation of the moon. "Come hither, my son," said he, with
his usual enthusiasm, "come, read with me in this vast volume
of wisdom, thus nightly unfolded for our perusal. Wisely did
the Chaldean sagos affirm, that the heaven is as a mystic page,
uttering speech to those who can rightly understand ; warning
them of good and evil, and instructing them in the secret de-
crees of fate."

The student's heart ached for his venerable master; and, for
a moment, he felt the f utility of his occult wisdom. ' ' Alas !
poor old man!" thought he, "of what avails all thy study?
Little dost thou dream, while busied in airy speculations among
the stars, what a treason against thy happiness is going on
under thine eyes; as it were, in thy very bosom! — Oh Inez!
Inez ! where shall we look for truth and innocence, where shall
we repose confidence in woman, if even you can deceive?"

It was a trite apostrophe, such as every lover makes when
he finds his mistress not quite such a goddess as he had
painted her. With the student, however, it sprung from
honest anguish of heart. He returned to his lodgings, in piti-
able confusion of mind. He now deplored the infatuation that
had led him on until his feelings were so thoroughly engaged.
He resolved to abandon his pursuits at the tower, and trust to
absence to dispel the fascination by which he had been spell-
bound. He no longer thirsted after the discovery of the grand
elixir: the dream of alchymy was over; for, without Inez,
what was the value of the philosopher's stone?

He rose, after a sleepless night, with the determination of
taking his leave of the alchymist, and tearing himself from
Granada. For several days did he rise with the same resolu-
tion, and every night saw him come back to his pillow, to
repine at his want of resolution, and to make fresh determina-
tions for the morrow. In the meanwhile, he saw less of Inez
than ever. She no longer walked in the garden, but remained
almost entirely in her apartment. When she met him, she
blushed more than usual ; and once hesitated, as if she would
have spoken ; but, after a temporary embarrassment, and still
deeper blushes, she made some casual observation, and retired.
Antonio read, in this confusion, a consciousness of fault, and
of that fault's being discovered. "What could she have
wished to communicate? Perhaps to account for the scene in

124 BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

the garden ; — but how can she account for it, or why should
she account for it to me? What am I to her? — or rather,
what is she to me?" exclaimed he, impatiently, with a new
resolution to break through these entanglements of the heart,
and fly from this enchanted spot for ever.

He was returning that very night to his lodgings, full of tliis
excellent determination, when, in a shadowy part of the road,
he passed a person whom he recognized, by his height and
form, for his rival : he was going in the direction of the tower.
If any lingering doubts remained, here was an opportunity of
settling them completely. He determined to follow this un-
known cavalier, and, under favour of the darkness, observe his
movements. If he obtained access to the tower, or in any way
a favourable reception, Antonio felt as if it would be a relief to
his mind, and would enable him to fix his wavering resolution.

The unknown, as he came near the tower, was more cautious
and stealthy in his approaches. He was joined under a clump
of trees by another person, and they had much whispering
together. A light was burning in the chamber of Inez; the
curtain was down, but the casement was left open, as the
night was warm. After some time, the light was extinguished.
A considerable interval elapsed. The cavalier and his com-
panion remained under covert of the trees, as if keeping
watch. At length they approached the tower, with silent and
cautious steps. The cavalier received a dark-lantern from his
companion, and threw off his cloak. The other then softly
brought something from the clump of trees, which Antonio
perceived to be a light ladder : he placed it against the wall,
and the serenader gently ascended. A sickening sensation
came over Antonio. Here was indeed a confirmation of every
fear. He was about to leave the place, never to return, when
he heard a stifled shriek from Inez's chamber.

In an instant, the fellow that stood at the foot of the ladder
lay prostrate on the ground. Antonio wrested a stiletto from
his nerveless hand, and hurried up the ladder. He sprang in
at the window, and found Inez struggling hi the grasp of his
fancied rival; the latter, disturbed from his prey, caught up
his lantern, turned its light full upon Antonio, and, drawing
his sword, made a furious assault ; luckily the student saw the
light gleam along the blade, and parried the thrust with the
stiletto. A fierce, but unequal combat ensued. Antonio fought
exposed to the full glare of the light, while his antagonist was
in shadow: his stiletto, too, was but a poor defence against

THE STUDENT Of SALAMANCA. 125

& rapier. He saw that nothing would save him but closing
with his adversary, and getting within his weapon : he rushed
furiously upon him, and gave him a severe blow with the
stiletto ; but received a wound in return from the shortened
sword. At the same moment, a blow was inflicted from be-
hind, by the confederate, who had ascended the ladder; it
felled him to the floor, and his antagonists made their escape.

By this time, the cries of Inez had brought her father and
the domestic into the room. Antonio was found weltering in
his blood, and senseless. He was conveyed to the chamber of
the alchymist, who now repaid in kind the attentions which
the student had once bestowed upon him. Among his varied
knowledge he possessed some skill in surgery, which at this
moment was of more value than even his chymical lore. He
stanched and dressed the wounds of his disciple, which on ex-
amination proved less desperate than he had at first appre-
hended. For a few days, however, his case was anxious, and
attended with danger. The old man watched over him with
the affection of a parent. He felt a double debt of gratitude
towards him, on account of his daughter and himself ; he loved
him too as a faithful and zealous disciple ; and he dreaded lest
the world should be deprived of the promising talents of so
aspiring an alchymist.

An excellent constitution soon medicined his wounds; and
there was a balsam in the looks and words of Inez, that had a
healing effect on the still severer wounds which he carried in
his heart. She displayed the strongest interest in his safety ;
she called him her deliverer, her preserver. It seemed as if
her grateful disposition sought, in the warmth of its acknowl-
edgments, to repay him for past coldness. But what most
contributed to Antonio's recovery, was her explanation con-
cerning his supposed rival. It was some time since he had first
beheld her at church, and he had ever since persecuted her
with his attentions. He had beset her in her walks, until she
had been obliged to confine herself to the house, except when
accompanied by her father. He had besieged her with letters,
serenades, and every art by which he could urge a vehement,
but clandestine and dishonourable suit. The scene in the gar-
den was as much of a surprise to her as to Antonio. Her per-
secutor had been attracted by her voice, and had found his way
over a ruined part of the wall. He had come upon her una-
wares ; was detaining her by force, and pleading his insulting
passion, when the appearance of the student interrupted

126 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

and enabled her to make her escape. She had forborne to men
lion to her father the persecution which she suffered; she
wished to spare him unavailing anxiety and distress, and had
determined to confine herself more rigorously to the house;
though it appeared that even here she had not been safe from
his daring enterprise.

Antonio inquired whether she knew the name of this impet-
uous admirer? She replied that he had made his advances
under a fictitious name; but that she had heard him once
called by the name of Don Ambrosio de Loxa.

Antonio knew liim, by report, for one of the most determined
and dangerous libertines in all Granada. Artful, accomplished,
and, if he chose to be so, insinuating; but daring and headlong
in the pursuit of his pleasures ; violent and implacable in hia
resentments. He rejoiced to find that Inez had been proof
against his seductions, and had been inspired with aversion by
his splendid profligacy ; but he trembled to think of the dangers
she had run, and he felt solicitude about the dangers that must
yet environ her.

At present, however, it was probable the enemy had a tem-
porary quietus. The traces of blood had been found for some
distance from the ladder, until they were lost among thickets ;
and as nothing had been heard or seen of him since, it was con-
cluded that he had been seriously wounded.

As the student recovered from his wounds, he was enabled
to join Inez and her father in their domestic intercourse. The
chamber in which they usually met had probably been a saloon
of state in former times. The floor was of marble ; the walls
partially covered with remains of tapestry ; the chairs, richly
carved and gilt, were crazed with age, and covered with tar-
nished and tattered brocade. Against the wall hung a long
rusty rapier, the only relic that the old man retained of the
chivalry of his ancestors. There might have been something
to provoke a smile, in the contrast between the mansion and
its inhabitants ; between present poverty and the graces of
departed grandeur ; but the fancy of the student had thrown
so much romance about the edifice and its inmates, that every
thing was clothed with charms. The philosopher, with his
broken-down pride, and his strange pursuits, seemed to com-
port with the melancholy ruin he inhabited ; and there was a
native elegance of spirit about the daughter, that showed she
would have graced the mansion in its happier days.

What delicious moments were these to the student! Inea

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 127

was no longer coy and reserved. She was naturally artless
and confiding ; though the kind of persecution she had experi-
enced from one admirer had rendered her, for a time, suspi-
cious and circumspect toward the other. She now felt an en-
tire confidence in the sincerity and worth of Antonio, mingled
with an overflowing gratitude. When her eyes met his, they
beamed with sympathy and kindness ; and Antonio, no longer"
haunted by the idea of a favoured rival, once more aspired to
success.

At these domestic meetings, however, he had little opportu-
nity of paying his court, except by looks. The alchymist, sup-
posing him, like himself, absorbed in the study of alchymy,
endeavoured to cheer the tediousness of his recovery by long
conversations on the art. He even brought several of his half-
burnt volumes, which the student had once rescued from the
flames, and rewarded him for their preservation, by reading
copious passages. He would entertain him with the great and
good acts of Flamel, which he effected through means of the
philosopher's stone, relieving widows and orphans, founding
hospitals, building churches, and what not ; or with the inter-
rogatories of King Kalid, and the answers of Morienus, the
Roman hermit of Hierusalem ; or the profound questions which
Elardus, a necromancer of the province of Catalonia, put to
the devil, touching the secrets of alchymy, and the devil's
replies.

All these were couched hi occult language, almost unintelli-
gible to the unpractised ear of the disciple. Indeed, the old
man delighted in the mystic phrases and symbolical jargon in
which the writers that have treated of alchymy have wrapped
their communications; rendering them incomprehensible ex-
cept to the initiated. With what rapture would he elevate his
voice at a triumphant passage, announcing the grand dis-
covery! " Thou shalt see," would he exclaim, in the words of
Henry Kuhnrade,* "the stone of the philosophers (our king)
go forth of the bed-chamber of his glassy sepulchre into the
threatre of this world ; that is to say, regenerated and made
perfect, a shining carbuncle, a most temperate splendour, whose
most subtle and depurated parts are inseparable, united into
one with a concordial mixture, exceeding equal, transparent as
chrystal, shining red like a ruby, permanently colouring or ring-
ing, fixt in all temptations or tryals ; yea, in the examination

* Amphitheatre of the Eternal Wisdom.

128 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

of the burning sulphur itself, and the devouring waters, and in
the most vehement persecution of the fire, always incombusti-
ble and permanent as a salamander !"

The student had a lu'gh veneration for the fathers of alchymy,
and a profound respect for his instructor ; but what was Henry
Kuhnrade, Geber, Lully, or even Albertus Magnus himself,
compared to the countenance of Inez, wlu'ch presented such a
page of beauty to his perusal? While, therefore, the good
alchymist was doling out knowledge by the hour, his disciple
would forget books, alchymy, every thing but the lovely object
before him. Inez, too, unpractised in the science of the heart,
was gradually becoming fascinated by the silent attentions of
her lover. Day by day, she seemed more and more perplexed
by the kindling and strangely pleasing emotions of her bosom.
Her eye was often cast down in thought. Blushes stole to her
cheek without any apparent cause, and light, half -suppressed
sighs would follow these short fits of musing. Her little bal-
lads, though the same that she had always sung, yet breathed
a more tender spirit. Blither the tones of her voice were more
soft and touching, or some passages were deli vered with a feel-
ing she had never before given them. Antonio, beside his love
for the abstruse sciences, had a pretty turn for music; and
never did philosopher touch the guitar more tastefully. As, by
degrees, he conquered the mutual embarrassment that kept
them asunder, he ventured to accompany Inez in some of her
songs. He had a voice full of fire and tenderness : as he sang,
one would have thought, from the kindling blushes of his com-
panion, that he had been pleading his own passion in her ear.
Let those who would keep two youthful hearts asunder, beware
of music. Oh ! this leaning over chairs, and conning the same
music-book, and entwining of voices, and melting away in
harmonies!— the German waltz is nothing to it.

The worthy alchymist saw nothing of all this. His mind
could admit of no idea that was not connected with the dis-
covery of the grand arcanum, and he supposed his youthful
coadjutor equally devoted. He was a mere child as to human
nature ; and, as to the passion of love, whatever he might once
have felt of it, he had long since forgotten that there was such
an idle passion in existence. But, while he dreamed, the silent
amour went on. The very quiet and seclusion of the place
were favourable to the growth of romantic passion. The open-
ing bud of love was able to put forth leaf by leaf, without an
adverse wind to check its growth. There was neither officious

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 129

friendship to chill by its advice, nor insidious envy to wither
by its sneers, nor an observing world to look on and stare it
ouj; of countenance. There was neither declaration, nor vow,
nor any other form of Cupid's canting school. Their hearts
mingled together, and understood each other without the aid
of language. They lapsed into the full current of affection,
unconscious of its depth, and thoughtless of the rocks that
might lurk beneath its surface. Happy lovers! who wanted
nothing to make their f eh' city complete, but the discovery of
the philosopher's stone !

At length, Antonio's health was sufficiently restored to ena-
ble him to return to his lodgings in Granada. He felt uneasy,
however, at leaving the tower, while lurking danger might
surround its almost defenceless inmates. He dreaded lest Don
Ambrosio, recovered from his wounds, might plot some new
attempt, by secret art, or open violence. From all that he had
heard, he knew him to be too implacable to suffer his defeat to
pass unavenged, and too rash and fearless, when his arts were
unavailing, to stop at any daring deed in the accomplishment
of his purposes. He urged his apprehensions to the alchymist
and his daughter, and proposed that they should abandon the
dangerous vicinity of Granada.

"I have relations," said he, "in Valentia, poor indeed, but
worthy and affectionate. Among them you will find friend-
ship and quiet, and we may there pursue our labours unmo-
lested." He went on to paint the beauties and delights of Va-
lentia, with all the fondness of a native, and all the eloquence
with which a lover paints the fields and groves which he is
picturing as the future scenes of his happiness. His eloquence,
backed by the apprehensions of Inez, was successful with the
alchymist, who, indeed, had led too unsettled a life to be par-
ticular about the place of his residence ; and it was determined,
that, as soon as Antonio's health was perfectly restored, they
should abandon the tower, and seek the delicious neighbourhood
of Valentia.*

* Here are the strongest silks, the sweetest wines, the excellent'st almonds, the
best oyls, and beautifull'st females of all Spain. The very bruit animals make
themselves beds of rosemary, and other fragrant flowers hereabouts; and when one
is at sea, if the winde blow from the shore, he may smell this soyl before he comes
in sight of it, many leagues off, by the strong odoriferous scent it casts. As it is the
most pleasant, so it is also the temperat'st clime of all Spain, and they commonly
call it the second Italy; which made the Moors, whereof many thousands were dis-
terr'd, and banish'd hence to Barbary, to think that Paradise was in that part of
the heavens which hung over this citie.— HOWBLL'S Letters.

130 BRACEBR1DQK HALL.

To recruit his strength, the student suspended his toils in the
laboratory, and spent the few remaining days, before departure,
in taking a farewell look at the enchanting environs of Grana-
da. He felt returning health and vigour, as he inhaled the pure
temperate breezes that play about its bills ; and the happy state
of his mind contributed to bis rapid recovery. Inez was often
the companion of his walks. Her descent, by the mother's sido,
from one of the ancient Moorish families, gave her an int<
in this once favourite seat of Arabian power. She gazed with
enthusiasm upon its magnificent monuments, and her memory
was filled with the traditional tales and ballads of Mooivh
chivalry. Indeed, the solitary life she had led, and the vision-
ary turn of her father's mind, had produced an effect upon her
character, and given it a tinge of what, in modern days, would
be termed romance. All this was called into full force by this
new passage ; for, when a woman first begins to love, lif e is all
romance to her.

In one of their evening strolls, they had ascended to the
mountain of the Sun, where is situated the Generaliffe, the
palace of pleasure, in the days of Moorish dominion, but now a
gloomy convent of Capuchins. They had wandered about its
garden, among groves of orange, citron, and cypress, where
the waters, leaping in torrents, or gushing in fountains, or
tossed aloft in sparkling jets, fill the air with music and fresh-
ness. There is a melancholy mingled with all the beauties of
this garden, that gradually stole over the f eelings of the lovers.
The place is full of the sad story of past times. It was the
favourite abode of the lovely queen of Granada, where she was
surrounded by the delights of a gay and voluptuous court. It
was here, too, amidst her own bowers of roses, that her slan-
derers laid the base story of her dishonour, and struck a fatal
blow to the line of the gallant Abencerrages.

The whole garden has a look of ruin and neglect. Many of
the fountains are dry and broken ; the streams have wandered
from their marble channels, and are choked by weeds and yel-
low leaves. The reed whistles to the wind, where it had once
sported among roses, and shaken perfume from the orange-
blossom. The convent-bell flings its sullen sound, or the
drowsy vesper-hymn floats along these solitudes, which once
resounded with the song, and the dance, and the lover's sere-
nade. Well may the Moors lament over the loss of this earthly
paradise; well may they remember it in their prayers, and
beseech Heaven to restore it to the faithful; well may their

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 131

ambassadors smite their breasts when they behold these monu-
ments of their race, and sit down and weep among the fading
glories of Granada !

It is impossible to wander about these scenes of departed love
and gayety, and not feel the tenderness of the heart awakened.
It was then that Antonio first ventured to breathe his passion,
and to express by words what his eyes had long since so elo-
quently revealed. He made his avowal with fervour, but with
frankness. He had no gay prospects to hold out: he was a
poor scholar, dependent on his "good spirits to feed and clothe
him." But a woman in love is no interested calculator. Inez
listened to him with downcast eyes, but in them was a humid
gleam that showed her heart was with him. She had no pru-
dery in her nature ; and she had not been sufficiently in society
to acquire it. She loved him with all the absence of worldli-
ness of a genuine woman; and, amidst timid smiles and
blushes, he drew from her a modest acknowledgment of her
affection.

They wandered about the garden, with that sweet intoxica-
tion of the soul which none but happy lovers know. The world
about them was all fairy land ; and, indeed, it spread forth one
of its fairest scenes before their eyes, as if to fulfil their dream
of earthly happiness. They looked out from between groves of
orange, upon the towers of Granada below them ; the magnifi-
cent plain of the Vega beyond, streaked with evening sunshine,
and the distant hills tinted with rosy and purple hues: it
seemed an emblem of the happy future, that love and hope
were decking out for them.

As if to make the scene complete, a group of Andalusians
struck up a dance, in one of the vistas of the garden, to the
guitars of two wandering musicians. The Spanish music is
wild and plaintive, yet the people dance to it with spirit and
enthusiasm. The picturesque figures of the dancers ; the girls
with their hair in silken nets that hung in knots and tassels
down their backs, their mantillas floating round their graceful
forms, their slender feet peeping from under their basquinas,
their arms tossed up in the air to play the castanets, had a
beautiful effect on this airy height, with the rich evening land-
scape spreading out below them.

When the dance was ended, two of the parties approached
Antonio and Inez ; one of them began a soft and tender Moorish
ballad, accompanied by the other on the lute. It alluded to
the story of the garden, the wrongs of the fair queen of Gra-

132 BRACEBllIUGE HALL.

nada, and the misfortunes of the Abencerrages. It was one oi
those old ballads that abound in this part of Spain, and live,
like echoes, about the ruins of Moorish greatness. The heart
of Inez was at that moment open to every tender impression ;
the tears rose into her eyes, as she listened to the tale. The
singer approached nearer to her; she was striking in her ap-
pearance ;— young, beautiful, with a mixture of wildness and
melancholy in her fine black eyes. She fixed them mournfully
and expressively on Inez, and, suddenly varying her manner,
sang another ballad, which treated of impending danger and
treachery. All this might have passed for a mere accidental
caprice of the singer, had there not been something in her look,
manner, and gesticulation that made it pointed and startling.
Inez was about to ask the meaning of this evidently personal
application of the song, when she was interrupted by Antonio,
who gently drew her from the place. Whilst she had been lost
in attention to the music, he had remarked a group of men, in
the shadows of the trees, whispering together. They were
enveloped in the broad hats and great cloaks so much worn by
the Spanish, and, while they were regarding himself and Inez
attentively, seemed anxious to avoid observation. Not know-
ing what might be their character or intention, he hastened to
quit a place where the gathering shadows of evening might ex-
pose them to intrusion and insult. On their way down the
hill, as they passed through the wood of elms, mingled with
poplars and oleanders, that skirts the road leading from the
Alhambra, he again saw these men apparently following at a
distance ; and he afterwards caught sight of them among the
trees on the banks of the Darro. He said nothing on the sub-
ject to Inez, nor her father, for he would not awaken unneces-
sary alarm ; but he felt at a loss how to ascertain or to avert
|any machinations that might be devising against the helpless
•inhabitants of the tower.

' He took his leave of them late at night, full of this perplex-
ity. As he left the dreary old pile, he saw some one lurking in
the shadow of the wall, apparently watching his movements.
He hastened after the figure, but it glided away, and dis-
appeared among some ruins. Shortly after he heard a low
whistle, which was answered from a little distance. He had no
longer a doubt but that some mischief was on foot, and turned
to hasten back to the tower, and put its inmates on their
guard. He had scarcely turned, however, before he found
himself suddenly seized from behind by some one of Herculean

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 133

strength. His struggles were in vain ; he was surrounded by
armed men. One threw a mantle over him that stifled his
cries, and enveloped him in its folds ; and he was hurried off
with irresistible rapidity.

The next day passed without the appearance of Antonio at
the alchymist's. Another, and another day succeeded, and
yet he did not come ; nor had any tiling been heard of him at
his lodgings. His absence caused, at first, surprise and con-
jecture, and at length alarm. Inez recollected the singular
intimations of the ballad-singer upon the mountain, which
seemed to warn her of impending danger, and her mind was
full of vague forebodings. She sat listening to every sound at
the gate, or footstep on the stairs. She would take up her
guitar and strike a few notes, but it would not do ; her heart
was sickening with suspense and anxiety. She had never be-
fore felt what it was to be really lonely. She now was con-
scious of the force of that attachment which had taken posses-
sion of her breast ; for never do we know how much we love,
never do we know how necessary the object of our love is to
our happiness, until we experience the weary void of separa-
tion.

The philosopher, too, felt the absence of his disciple almost
as sensibly as did his daughter. The animating buoyancy of
the youth had inspired him with new ardour, and had given to
his labours the charm of full companionship. However, he had
resources and consolations of which his daughter was desti-
tute. His pursuits were of a nature to occupy every thought,
and keep the spirits in a state of continual excitement. Cer-
tain indications, too, had lately manifested themselves, of the
most favourable nature. Forty days and forty nights had the
process gone on successfully ; the old man's hopes were con-
stantly rising, and he now considered the glorious moment
once more at hand, when he should obtain not merely the
major lunaria, but likewise the tinctura Solaris, the means of
multiplying gold, and of prolonging existence. He remained,
therefore, continually shut up in his laboratory, watching his
furnace ; for a moment's inadvertency might once more defeat
all his expectations.

He was sitting one evening at one of his solitary vigils,
wrapped up in meditation ; the hour was late, and his neigh-
bour, the owl, was hooting from the battlement of the tower,
when he heard the door open behind him. Supposing it to
be his daughter coming to take her leave of him for the night,

134 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

as was herfrequent practice, he called her by name, but a harsh
voice me this ear in reply. He was grasped by the arms, and,
looking up, perceived three strange men in the chamber. He
attempted to shake them off, but in vain. He called for help,
but they scoffed at his cries. "Peace, dotard!" cried one:
"think'st thou the servants of the most holy inquisition are
to be daunted by thy clamours? Comrades, away with him 1"

Without heeding his remonstrances and entreaties, they
seized upon his books and papers, took some note of the apart
ment, and the utensils, and then bore him off a prisoner.

Inez, left to herself, had passed a sad and lonely evening;
seated by a casement which looked into the garden, she had
pensively watched star after star sparkle out of the blue depths
of the sky, and was indulging a crowd of anxious thoughts
about her lover, until the rising tears began to flow. She was
suddenly alarmed by the sound of voices, that seemed to como
from a distant part of the mansion. There was, not long after,
a noise of several persons descending the stairs. Surprised at
these unusual sounds in their lonely habitation, she remained
for a few moments in a state of trembling, yet indistinct appre-
hension, when the servant rushed into the room, with terror
in her countenance, and informed her that her father was car-
ried off by armed men.

Inez did not stop to hear further, but flew down-stairs to
overtake them. She had scarcely passed the threshold, when
she found herself in the grasp of strangers.— " Away ! — away !"
cried she, wildly, "do not stop me — let me follow my father."

" We come to conduct you to him, senora," said one of the
men, respectfully.

"Where is he, then?"

" He is gone to Granada," replied the man : " an unexpected
circumstance requires his presence there immediately ; but he
is among friends,"

" We have no friends in Granada," said Inez, drawing back;
but then the idea of Antonio rushed into her mind ; something
relating to him might have call her father thither. "Is senor
Antonio de Castros with him ?" demanded she, with agitation.

" I know not, senora," replied the man. " It is very possible.
I only know that your father is among friends, and is anxious
for you to follow him."

"Let us go, then," cried she, eagerly. The men led her a
little distance to where a mule was waiting, and, assisting
her to mount, they conducted her slowly towards the city.

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA, 135

Granada -was on that evening a scene of fanciful revel. It
was, one of the festivals of the Maestranza, an association of
the nobility to keep up some of the gallant customs of ancient
chivalry. There had been a representation of a tournament
in one of the squares ; the streets would still occasionally re-
sound with the beat of a solitary drum, or the bray of a trum-
pet from some straggling party of revellers. Sometimes they
were met by cavaliers, richly dressed in ancient costumes, at-
tended by their squires ; and at one time they passed in sight
of a palace brilliantly illuminated, from whence came the min-
gled sounds of music and the dance. Shortly after, they came
to the square where the mock tournament had been held. It
was thronged by the populace, recreating themselves among
booths and stalls where refreshments were sold, and the glare
of torches showed the temporary galleries, and gay-coloured
awnings, and armorial trophies, and other prraphernalia of
the show. The conductors of Inez endeavoured to keep out of
observation, and to traverse a gloomy part of the square ; but
they were detained at one place by the pressure of a crowd sur-
rounding a party of wandering musicians, singing one of those
ballads of which the Spanish populace are so passionately fond.
The torches which were held by some of the crowd, threw a
strong mass of light upon Inez, and the sight of so beautiful a
being, without mantilla or veil, looking so bewildered, and
conducted by men who seemed to take no gratification in the
surrounding gayety, occasioned expressions of curiosity. One
of the ballad-singers approached, and striking her guitar with
peculiar earnestness, began to sing a doleful air, full of sinister
forebodings. Inez started with surprise. It was the same bal-
lad-singer that had addressed her in the garden of the Gene-
raliffe. It was the same air that she had then sung. It spoke
of impending dangers; they seemed, indeed, to be thickening
around her. She was anxious to speak with the girl, and to
ascertain whether she really had a knowledge of any definite
evil that was threatening her ; but, as she attempted to address
her, the mule, on which she rode, was suddenly seized, and led
forcibly through the throng by one of her conductors, while
she saw another addressing menacing words to the ballad-
singer. The latter raised her hand with a warning gesture, as
Inez lost sight of her.

While she was yet lost in perplexity, caused by this singular
occurrence, they stopped at the gate of a large mansion. One
of her attendants knocked, the door was opened, and they en-

136 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

tered a paved court. "Where are we?" demanded Inez, with
anxiety. "At the house of a friend, senora," replied the man.
"Ascend this staircase with me, and in a moment you will
meet your father."

They ascended a staircase, that led to a suite of splendid
apartments. They passed through several, until they came to
an inner chamber. The door opened — some one approached ;
but what was her terror at perceiving, not her father, but Don
Ambrosio 1

The men who had seized upon the alchymist had, at least,
been more honest in their professions. They were, indeed,
familiars of the inquisition. He was conducted in silence to
the gloomy prison of that horrible tribunal. It was a mansion
whose very aspect withered joy, and almost shut out hope. It
was one of those hideous abodes which the bad passions of men
conjure up in this fair world, to rival the fancied dens of
demons and the accursed.

Day after day went heavily by, without anything to mark
the lapse of time, but the decline and reappearance of the light
that feebly glimmered through the narrow window of the dun-
geon in which the unfortunate alchymist was buried rather
than confined. His mind was harassed with uncertainties and
fears about his daughter, so helpless and inexperienced. He
endeavoured to gather tidings of her from the man who brought
his daily portion of food. The fellow stared, as if astonished
at being asked a question in that mansion of silence and mys-
tery, but departed without saying a word. Every succeeding
attempt was equally fruitless.

The poor alchymist was oppressed by many griefs ; and it
was not the least, that he had been again interrupted in his
labours on the very point of success. Never was alchymist so
near attaining the golden secret — a little longer, and all his
hopes would have been realized. The thoughts of these disap-
pointments afflicted him more even than the fear of all that he
might suffer from the merciless inquisition. His waking
thoughts would follow him into his dreams. He would be
transported in fancy to his laboratory, busied again among re-
torts and alembics, and surrounded by Lully, by D'Abano, by
Olybius, and the other masters of the sublime art. Tne mo-
ment of projection would arrive ; a seraphic form would rise
out of the furnace, holding forth a vessel containing the pre-
cious elixir; but, before he could grasp the prize, he would
awake, and find himself in a dungeon.

TEE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 137

All the devices of inquisitorial ingenuity were employed to
ensnare the old man, and to draw from him evidence that
might be brought against himself, and might corroborate cer-
tain secret information that had been given against him. He
had been accused of practising necromancy and judicial astrol-
ogy, and a cloud of evidence had been secretly brought forward
to substantiate the charge. It would be tedious to enumerate
all the circumstances, apparently corroborative, which had
been industriously cited by the secret accuser. The silence
which prevailed about the tower, its desolateness, the very quiet
of its inhabitants, had been adduced as proofs that something
sinister was perpetrated within. The alchymist's conversa-
tions and soliloquies in the garden had been overheard and mis-
represented. The lights and strange appearances at night, in
the tower, were given with violent exaggerations. Shrieks
and yells were said to have been heard from thence at mid-
night, when, it was confidently asserted, the old man raised
familiar spirits by his incantations, and even compelled the
dead to rise from their graves, and answer to his questions.

The alchymist, according to the custom of the inquisition,
was kept in complete ignorance of his accuser ; of the witnesses
produced against him ; even of the crimes of which he was ac-
cused. He was examined generally, whether he knew why he
was arrested, and was conscious of any guilt that might de-
serve the notice of the holy office? He was examined as to his
country, his life, his habits, his pursuits, his actions, and opin-
ions. The old man was frank and simple in his replies ; he was
conscious of no guilt, capable of no art, practised in no dis-
simulation. After receiving a general admonition to bethink
himself whether he had not committed any act deserving of
punishment, and to prepare, by confession, to secure the well-
known mercy of the tribunal, he was remanded to his cell.

He was now visited in his dungeon by crafty familiars of the
inquisition; who, under pretence of sympathy and kindness,
came to beguile the tediousness of his imprisonment with
friendly conversation. They casually introduced the subject
of alchymy, on which they touched with great caution and
pretended indifference. There was no need of such craftiness.
The honest enthusiast had no suspicion in his nature : the mo-
ment they touched upon his favourite theme, he forgot his mis-
fortunes and imprisonment, and broke forth into rhapsodies
about the divine science.

The conversation was artfully turned to the discussion of

138 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

elementary beings. The alchymist readily avowed his belief
in them; and that there had been instances of their attending
upon philosophers, and administering to their wishes. He
related many miracles said to have been performed by Apol-
lonius Thyaneus, through the aid of spirits or demons; inso-
much that he was set up by the heathens in opposition to the
Messiah; and was even regarded with reverence by many
Christians. The familiars eagerly demanded whether he be-
lieved Apollonius to be a true and worthy philosopher. The
unaffected piety of the alchymist protected him even in the
midst of his simplicity; for he condemned Apollonius as a
sorcerer and an impostor. No art could draw from him an
admission that he had ever employed or invoked spiritual
agencies in the prosecution of his pursuits, though he believed
himself to have been frequently impeded by their invisible
interference.

The inquisitors were sorely vexed at not being able to inveigle
him into a confession of a criminal nature ; they attributed their
failure to craft, to obstinacy, to every cause but the right one,
namely, that the harmless visionary had nothing guilty to con
fess. They had abundant proof of a secret nature against him ;
but it was the practice of the inquisition to endeavour to procure
confession from the prisoners. An auto da f 6 was at hand ;
the worthy fathers were eager for his conviction, for they were
always anxious to have a good number of culprits condemned
to the stake, to grace these solemn triumphs. He was at
length brought to a final examination.

The chamber of trial was spacious and gloomy. At one end
was a huge crucifix, the standard of the inquisition. A long
table extended through the centre of the room, at which sat
the inquisitors and their secretary ; at the other end, a stool
was placed for the prisoner.

He was brought in, according to custom, bare-headed and
bare-legged. He was enfeebled by confinement and affliction;
by constantly brooding over the unknown fate of his child,
and the disastrous interruption of his experiments. He sat
bowed down and listless; his head sunk upon his breast; his
whole appearance that of one "past hope, abandoned, and by
himself given over."

The accusation alleged against him was now brought forward
in a specific form; he was called upon by name, Felix de
Vasquez, formerly of Castile, to answer to the charges of
necromancy and demonology. He was told »uat the

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 139

were amply substantiated; and was asked whether he was
ready, by full confession, to throw himself upon the well-
known mercy of the holy inquisition.

The philosopher testified some slight surprise at the nature
of the accusation, but simply replied, "I am innocent."

"What proof have you to give of your innocence?"

"It rather remains for you to prove your charges," said the
old man. " I am a stranger and a sojourner in the land, and
know no one out of the doors of my dwelling. I can give
nothing in my vindication but the word of a nobleman and a
Castilian. "

The inquisitor shook his head, and went on to repeat the
various inquiries that had before been made as to his mode of
life and pursuits. The poor alchymist was too feeble and too
weary at heart to make any but brief replies. He requested
that some man of science might examine his laboratory, and all
his books and papers, by which it would be made abundantly
evident that he was merely engaged in the study of alchymy.

To this the inquisitor observed, that alchymy had become a
mere covert for secret and deadly sins. That the practisers of
it were apt to scruple at no means to satisfy their inordinate
greediness of gold. Some had been known to use spells and
impious ceremonies; to conjure the aid of evil spirits; nay,
even to sell their souls to the enemy of mankind, so that they
might riot in boundless wealth while living.

The poor alchymist had heard all patiently, or, at least, pas-
sively. He had disdained to vindicate his name otherwise
than by his word ; he had smiled at the accusations of sorcery,
when applied merely to himself; but when the sublime art,
which had been the study and passion of his life, was assailed,
he could no longer listen in silence. His head gradually rose
from his bosom ; a hectic colour came in faint streaks to his
cheek; played about there, disappeared, returned, and at
length kindled into a burning glow. The clammy dampness
dried from his forehead; his eyes, which had nearly been
extinguished, lighted up again, and burned with their wonted
and visionary fires. He entered into a vindication of his fa-
vourite art. His voice at first was feeble and broken ; but it
gathered strength as he proceeded, until it rolled in a deep and
sonorous volume. He gradually rose from his seat, as he rose
with his subject; he threw back the scanty black mantle
which had hitherto wrapped his limbs ; the very uncouthness
of his form and looks gave an impressive effect to what ho

140 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

uttered; it was as though a corpse had become suddenly ani-
mated.

He repelled with scorn tLe aspersions cast upon alchymy by
the ignorant and vulgar. He affirmed it to be the mother of
all art and science, citing the opinions of Paracelsus, Sandi-
vogius, Raymond Lully, and others, in support of his :i
tions. He maintained that it was pure and innocent and
honourable both in its purposes and means. What were its
objects? The perpetuation of life and youth, and the produc-
tion of gold. "The elixir vitse," said he, "is no charmed
potion, but merely a concentration of those elements of vitality
which nature has scattered through her works. The philoso-
pher's stone, or tincture, or powder, as it is variously called, is
no necromantic talisman, but consists simply of those particles
which gold contains within itself for its reproduction ; for gold,
like other things, has its seed within itself, though bound up
with inconceivable firmness, from the vigour of innate fixed
salts and sulphurs. In seeking to discover the elixir of life,
then," continued he, '* we seek only to apply some of nature's
own specifics against the disease and decay to which our bodies
are subjected ; and what else does the physician, when he tasks
his art. and uses subtle compounds and cunning distillations,
to revive our languishing powers, and avert the stroke of death
for a season?

" In seeking to multiply the precious metals, also, we seek but
to germinate and multiply, by natural means, a particular
species of nature's productions ; and what else does the hus-
bandman, who consults times and seasons, and, by what might
be deemed a natural magic, from the mere scattering of his
hand, covers a whole plain with golden vegetation? The mys-
teries of our art, it is true, are deeply and darkly hidden ; but
it requires so much the more innocence and purity of thought,
to penetrate unto them. No, father ! the true alchymist must
be pure in mind and body; he must be temperate, patient,
chaste, watchful, meek, humble, devout. 'My son,' says
Hermes Trismegestes, the great master of our art, ' my son, I
recommend you above all things to fear God.' And indeed it is
only by devout castigation of the senses, and purification of the
soul that the alchymist is enabled to enter into the sacred
chambers of truth. 'Labour, pray, and read,' is the motto of
our science. As De Nuysinent well observes, ' These hiph and
singular favours are granted unto none, save only unto the
sons of God, (that is to say, the virtuous and devout,) who,

THE STUDENT OP SALAMANCA. 141

under his paternal benediction, have obtained the opening
of the same, by the helping hand of the queen of arts, divine
Philosophy.' Indeed, so sacred has the nature of this know-
ledge been considered, that we are told it has four times been
expressly communicated by God to man, having made a part of
that cabalistical wisdom which was revealed to Adam to con-
sole him for the loss of Paradise ; and to Moses in the bush, and
to Solomon in a dream, and to Esdras by the angel.

' ' So far from demons and malign spirits being the friends and
abettors of the alchymist, they are the continual foes with
which he has to contend. It is their constant endeavour to shut
up the avenues to those truths which would enable him to rise
above the abject state into which he has fallen, and return to that
excellence which was his original birthright. For what would
be the effect of this length of days, and this abundant wealth,
but to enable the possessor to go on from art to art, from science
to science, with energies unimpaired by sickness, uninterrupted
by death ? For this have sages and philosophers shut themselves
up in cells and solitudes ; buried themselves in caves and dens
of the earth ; turning from the joys of life, and the pleasance of
the world ; enduring scorn, poverty, persecution. For this was
Pvaymond Lully stoned to death in Mauritania. For this did
the immortal Pietro D'Abano suffer persecution at Padua,
and, when he escaped from his oppressors by death, was de-
spitefully burnt in effigy. For this have illustrious men of all
nations intrepidly suffered martyrdom. For this, if unmolest-
ed, have they assiduously employed the latest hour of life,
the expiring throb of existence ; hoping to the last that they
might yet seize upon the prize for which they had struggled,
and pluck themselves back even from the very jaws of the
grave !

" For, when once the alchymist shall have attained the ob-
ject of his toils ; when the sublime secret shall be revealed to
his gaze, how glorious will be the change in his condition!
How will he emerge from his solitary retreat, like the sun
breaking forth from the darksome chamber of the night, and
darting his beams throughout the earth ! Gifted with perpetual
youth and boundless riches, to what heights of wisdom may he
attain! How may he carry on, uninterrupted, the thread of
knowledge, which has hitherto been snapped at the death of
each philosopher! And, as the increase of wisdom is the in-
crease of virtue, how may he become the benefactor of his
fellow-men ; dispensing, with liberal but cautious and discrimi-

142 BRACEBRIDGB HALL.

nating hand, that inexhaustible wealth which is at his disposal ;
banishing poverty, which is the cause of so much sorrow and
wickedness; encouraging the arts; promoting discoveries, and
enlarging all the means of virtuous enjoyment ! His life will
be the connecting band of generations. History will live in his
recollection; distant ages will speak with his tongue. The
nations of the earth will look to him as their preceptor, and
kings will sit at his feet and learn wisdom. Oh glorious ! oh
celestial alchymy 1" —

Here he was interrupted by the inquisitor, who had suffered
him to go on thus far, in hopes of gathering something from his
unguarded enthusiasm. " Senor," said he, this is all rambling,
visionary talk. You are charged with sorcery, and in defence
you give us a rhapsody about alchymy. Have you nothing
better than this to offer in your defence?"

The old man slowly resumed his seat, but did not deign a
reply. The fire that had beamed in his eye gradually expired.
TTis cheek resumed its wonted paleness ; but he did not relapse
into inanity. He sat with a steady, serene, patient look, like
one prepared not to contend, but to suffer.

His trial continued for a long time, with cruel mockery of
justice, for no witnesses were ever in this court confronted with
the accused, and the latter had continually to defend himself in
the dark. Some unknown and powerful enemy had alleged
charges against the unfortunate alchymist, but who he could
not imagine. Stranger and sojourner as he was in the land,
solitary and harmless in his pursuits, how could he have pro-
voked such hostility? The tide of secret testimony, however,
was too strong against him ; he was convicted of the crime of
magic, and condemned to expiate his sins at the stake, at the
approaching auto da fe.

While the unhappy alchymist was undergoing his trial at
the inquisition, his daughter was exposed to trials no less
severe. Don Ambrosio, into whose hands she had fallen, was,
as has before been intimated, one of the most daring and lawless
profligates in all Granada. He was a man of hot blood and
fiery passions, who stopped at nothing in the gratification of
his desires; yet with all this he possessed manners, address,
and accomplishments, that had made him eminently successful
among the sex. From the palace to the cottage he had extend-
ed his amorous enterprises; his serenades harassed the slum-
bers of half the husbands in Granada ; no balcony was too hiprh
for his adventurous attempts, nor any cottage too lowly for his

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 143

perfidious seductions. Yet he was as fickle as he was ardent ;
success had made him vain and capricious ; he had no sentiment
to attach him to the victim of his arts ; and many a pale cheek
and fading eye, languishing amidst the sparkling of jewels, and
many a breaking heart, throbbing under the rustic bodice,
bore testimony to his triumphs and his faithlessness.

He was sated, however, by easy conquests, and wearied of a
life of continual and prompt gratification. There had been a
degree of difficulty and enterprise in the pursuit of Inez that he
had never before experienced. It had aroused him from the
monotony of mere sensual life, and stimulated him with the
charm of adventure. He had become an epicure in pleasure ;
and now that he had this coy beauty in his power, he was de-
termined to protract his enjoyment, by the gradual conquest of
her scruples and downfall of her virtue. He was vain of his
person and address, which he thought no woman could long
withstand ; and it was a kind of trial of skill to endeavour to
gain, by art and fascination, what he was secure of obtaining
at any time by violence.

When Inez, therefore, was brought into his presence by his
emissaries, he affected not to notice her terror and surprise, but
received her with formal and stately courtesy. He was too
wary a fowler to flutter the bird when just entangled in the
net. To her eager and wild inquiries about her father, he
begged her not to be alarmed ; that he was safe, and had been
there, but was engaged elsewhere in an affair of moment,
from which he would soon return ; in the meantime, he had
left word that she should await his return in patience. After
some stately expressions of general civility, Don Ambrosio
made a ceremonious bow and retired.

The mind of Inez was full of trouble and perplexity. The
stately formality of Don Ambrosio was so unexpected as to
check the accusations and reproaches that were springing to her
lips. Had he had evil designs, would he have treated her with
such frigid ceremony when he had her in his power? But why,
then, was she brought to his house ? Was not the mysterious
disappearance of Antonio connected with this? A thought
suddenly darted into her mind. Antonio had again met with
Don Ambrosio— they had fought — Antonio was wounded — per-
haps dying ! It was him to whom her father had gone — it was
at Ms request that Don Ambrosio had sent for them, to soothe
his dying moments! These, and a thousand such horrible sug-
gestions, harassed her mind ; but she tried in vain to get in?

144 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

formation from the domestics ; they knew nothing but that he*
father had been there, had gone, aud would soon return.

Thus passed a night of tumultuous thought, and vague yet
cruel apprehensions. She knew not what to do or what to
believe — whether she ought to fly, or to remain ; but if to fly,
how was she to extricate herself? — and where was she to seek
her father? As the day dawned without any intelligence of
him, her alarm increased; at length a message was brought
from him, saying that circumstances prevented his return to
her, but begging her to hasten to him without delay.

With an eager and throbbing heart did she set forth with the
men that were to conduct her. She little thought, however,
that she was merely changing her prison-house. Don Ambro-
sio had feared lest she should be traced to his residence in
Granada ; or that he might be interrupted there before he could
accomplish his plan of seduction. He had her now conveyed,
therefore, to a mansion which he possessed in one of the moun-
tain solitudes in the neighbourhood of Granada; a lonely, but
beautiful retreat. In vain, on her arrival, did she look around
for her father or Antonio ; none but strange faces met her eye ;
menials, profoundly respectful, but who knew nor saw anything
but what their master pleased.

She had scarcely arrived before Don Ambrosio made his ap-
pearance, less stately in his manner, but still treating her with
the utmost delicacy and deference. Inez was too much agitated
and alarmed to be baffled by his courtesy, and became vehe-
ment in her demand to be conducted to her father.

Don Ambrosio now put on an appearance of the greatest em-
barrassment and emotion. After some delay, and much pre-
tended confusion, he at length confessed that the seizure of her
father was all a stratagem ; a mere false alarm, to procure him
the present opportunity of having access to her, and endeavour-
ing to mitigate that obduracy, and conquer that repugnance,
which he declared had almost driven him to distraction.

He assured her that her father was again at home in safety,
and occupied in his usual pursuits ; having been fully satisfied
that his daughter was in honourable hands, and would soon be
restored to him. It was in vain that she threw herself at his
feet, and implored to be set at liberty; he only replied by gentle
entreaties, that she would pardon the seeming violence he had to
use ; and that she would trust a little while to his honour. ' ' You
are here," said he, "absolute mistress of every thing: nothing
shall be said or done to offend you : I will not even intrude

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 145

upon your ear the unhappy passion that is devouring my heart.
Should you require it, I will even absent myself from your
presence ; but, to part with you entirely at present, with your
mind full of doubts and resentments, would be worse than
death to me. No, beautiful Inez, you must first know me a
little better, and know by my conduct that my passion for you
is as delicate and respectful as it is vehement."

The assurance of her father's safety had relieved Inez from
one cause of torturing anxiety, only to render her fears the
more violent on her own account. Don Ambrosio, however,
continued to treat her with artful deference, that insensibly
lulled her apprehensions. It is true she found herself a captive,
but no advantage appeared to be taken of her helplessness. She
soothed herself with the idea that a little while would suffice to
convince Don Ambrosio of the fallacy of his hopes, and that
he would be induced to restore her to her home. Her tran-
sports of terror and affliction, therefore, subsided, in a few
days, into a passive, yet anxious melancholy, with which she
awaited the hoped-for event.

In the meanwhile, all those artifices were employed that are
calculated to charm the senses, ensnare the feelings, and dis-
solve the heart into tenderness. Don Ambrosio was a master
of the subtle arts of seduction. His very mansion breathed an
enervating atmosphere of languor and delight. It was here,
amidst twilight saloons and dreamy chambers, buried among
groves of orange and myrtle, that he shut himself up at times
from the prying world, and gave free scope to the gratification
of his pleasures.

The apartments were furnished in the most sumptuous and
voluptuous manner ; the silken couches swelled to the touch,
and sunk in downy softness beneath the slightest pressure.
The paintings and statues, all told some classic tale of love,
managed, however, with an insidious delicacy ; which, while it
banished the grossness that might disgust, was the more calcu-
lated to excite the imagination. There the blooming Adonis
was seen, not breaking away to pursue the boisterous chase,
but crowned with flowers, and languishing in the embraces of
celestial beauty. There Acis wooed his Galatea in the shade,
with the Sicilian sea spreading in halcyon serenity before them.
There were depicted groups of fauns and dryads, fondly re-
clining in summer bowers, and listening to the liquid piping
of the reed; or the wanton satyrs, surprising some wood-
nymph during her noontide slumber. There, too, on th$

146 SRACEBRIDGE BALL.

storied tapestry, might be seen the chaste Diana, stealing, in
the mystery of moonlight, to kiss the sleeping Endymion;
while Cupid and Psyche, entwined in immortal marble,
breathed on each other's lips the early kiss of love.

The ardent rays of the sun were excluded from these balmy
halls; soft and tender music from unseen musicians floated
around, seeming to mingle with the perfumes that were exhaled
from a thousand flowers. At night, when the moon shed a
fairy light over the scene, the tender serenade would rise from
among the bowers of the garden, in which the fine voice of
Don Ambrosio might often be distinguished ; or the amorous
flute would be heard along the mountain, breathing in its
pensive cadences the very soul of a lover's melancholy.

Various entertainments were also devised to dispel her lone-
liness, and to charm away the idea of confinement. Groups of
Andalusian dancers performed, in the splendid saloons, the
various picturesque dances of their country; or represented
little amorous ballets, which turned upon some pleasing scene
of pastoral coquetry and courtship. Sometimes there were
bands of singers, who, to the romantic guitar, warbled forth
ditties full of passion and tenderness.

Thus all about her enticed to pleasure and voluptuousnesss ;
but the heart of Inez turned with distaste from this idle
mockery. The tears would rush into her eyes, as her thoughts
reverted from this scene of profligate splendour, to the humble
but virtuous home from whence she had been betrayed ; or if
the witching power of music ever soothed her into a tender
reverie, it was to dwell with fondness on the image of Antonio.
But if Don Ambrosio, deceived by this transient calm, should
attempt at such time to whisper his passion, she would start as
from a dream, and recoil from him with involuntary shudder-
ing.

She had passed one long day of more than ordinary sadness,
and in the evening a band of these hired performers were
exerting all the animating powers of song and dance to amuse
her. But while the lofty saloon resounded with their war-
bungs, and the light sound of feet upon its marble pavement
kept time to the cadence of the song, poor Inez, with her face
buried in the silken couch on which she reclined, was only ren-
dered more wretched by the sound of gayety.

At length her attention was caught by the voice of one of the
singers, that brought with it some indefinite recollections.
She raised her head, and cast an anxious look at the perform-

TEE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 147

ers, who, as usual, were at the lower end of the saloon. One
of them advanced a little before the others. It was a female,
dressed in a fanciful, pastoral garb, suited to the character she
was sustaining ; but her countenance was not to be mistaken.
It was the same ballad-singer that had twice crossed her path,
and given her mysterious intimations of the lurking mischief
that surrounded her. When the rest of the performances
were concluded, she seized a tambourine, and, tossing it aloft,
danced alone to the melody of her own voice. In the course
of her dancing, she approached to where Inez reclined : and as
she struck the tambourine, contrived dexterously to throw a
folded paper on the couch. Inez seized it with avidity, and
concealed it in her bosom. The singing and dancing were at
an end ; the motley crew retired ; and Inez, left alone, hastened
with anxiety to unfold the paper thus mysteriously conveyed.
It was written in an agitated, and almost illegible handwriting:
"Be on your guard! you are surrounded by treachery.
Trust not to the forbearance of Don Ambrosio; you are
marked out for his prey. An humble victim to his perfidy
gives you this warning; she is encompassed by too many dan-
gers to be more explicit. — Your father is in the dungeons of
the inquisition !"

The brain of Inez reeled, as she read this dreadful scroll.
She was less filled with alarm at her own danger, than horror
at her father's situation. The moment Don Ambrosio appeared,
she rushed and threw herself at his feet, imploring him to
save her father. Don Ambrosio stared with astonishment ; but
immediately regaining his self-possession, endeavoured to
soothe her by his blandishments, and by assurances that her
father was in safety. She was not to be pacified; her fears
were too much aroused to be trifled with. She declared her
knowledge of her father's being a prisoner of the inquisition,
and reiterated her frantic supplications that he would save
him,

Don Ambrosio paused for a moment in perplexity, but was
too adroit to be easily confounded. "That your father is a
prisoner," replied he, "I have long known. I have concealed
it from you, to save you from fruitless anxiety. You now
know the real reason of the restraint I have put upon your
liberty: I have been protecting instead of detaining you.
Every exertion has been made in your father's favour ; but I
regret to say, the proofs of the offences of which he stands
charged have been too strong to be controverted. Still, " added

148 &RACSB&WO& HALL

he, "I have it in my power to save him; I have influence, I
have means at my beck ; it may involve me, it is true, in diffi-
culties, perhaps in disgrace ; but what would I not do, in the
hope of being rewarded by your favour? Speak, beautiful
Inez," said he, his eyes kindling with sudden eagerness; " it is
with you to say the word that seals your father's fate. One
kind word — say but you will be mine, and you will behold me
at your feet, your father at liberty and in affluence, and we
shall all be happy 1"

Inez drew back from him with scorn and disbelief. "My
father," exclaimed she, "is too innocent and blameless to be
convicted of crime; this is some base, some cruel artifice!"
Don Ambrosio repeated his asseverations, and with them also
his dishonourable proposals; but his eagerness overshot its
mark; her indignation and her incredulity wen- alike awakened
by his base suggestions; and he retired from her presence.
checked and awed by the sudden pride and dignity of her
demeanour.

The unfortunate Inez now became a prey to the most liar-
rowing anxieties. Don Ambrosio saw that the mask had fallen
from his face, and that the nature of his machinations was
revealed. He had gone too far to retrace his steps, and assume
the affectation of tenderness and respect ; indeed, he was mor-
tified and incensed at her insensibility to his attractions, and
now only sought to subdue her through her fears. He daily
represented to her the dangers that threatened her father, and
that it was in his power alone to avert them. Inez was still
incredulous. She was too ignorant of the nature of the inqui-
sition, to know that even innocence was not always a protection
from its cruelties ; and she confided too surely in the virtue of
her father, to believe that any accusation could prevail against
him.

At length Don Ambrosio, to give an effectual blow to her
confidence, brought her the proclamation of the approaching
auto da fe", in which the prisoners were enumerated. She
glanced her eye over it, and beheld her father's name, con-
demned to the stake for sorcery 1

For a moment she stood transfixed with horror. Don
Ambrosio seized upon the transient calm. "Think, now,
beautiful Inez, " said he, with a tone of affected tenderness,
"his life is still in your hands; one word from you, one kind
word, and I can yet save him."

"Monster! wretch!" cried she, coming to herself, and

TEE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 149

recoiling from him with insuperable abhorrence: "'Tis you
that are the cause of this — 'tis you that are his murderer!"
Then, wringing her hands, she broke forth into exclamations of
the most frantic agony.

The perfidious Ambrosio saw the torture of her soul, and
anticipated from it a triumph. He saw that she was in no
mood, during her present paroxysm, to listen to his words ; but
he trusted that the horrors of lonely rumination would break
down her spirit, and subdue her to his will. In this, however,
he was disappointed. Many were the vicissitudes of mind
of the wretched Inez; at one time, she would embrace his
knees, with piercing supplications; at another, she would
shrink with nervous horror at his very approach; but any
intimation of his passion only excited the same emotion of
loathing and detestation.

At length the fatal day drew nigh. "To-morrow," said
Don Ambrosio, as he left her one evening, "to-morrow is
the auto da fe. To-morrow you will hear the sound of the bell
that tolls your father to his death. You will almost see the
smoke that rises from the funeral pile. I leave you to yourself.
It is yet in my power to save him. Think whether you can
stand to-morrow's horrors without shrinking ! Think whether
you can endure the after-reflection, that you were the cause of
his death, and that merely through a perversity in refusing
proffered happiness."

What a night was it to Inez! — her heart already harassed
and almost broken, by repeated and protracted anxieties ; her
strength wasted and enfeebled. On every side, horrors
awaited her; her father's death, her own dishonour — there
seemed no escape from misery or perdition. "Is there no
relief from man— no pity in heaven?" exclaimed she. " What
— what have we done, that we should be thus wretched?" »

As the dawn approached, the fever of her mind arose to
agony ; a thousand times did she try the doors and windows of
her apartment, in the desperate hope of escaping. Alas ! with
all the splendour of her prison, it was too faithfully secured for
her weak hands to work deliverance. Like a poor bird, that
beats its wings against its gilded cage, until it sinks panting in
despair, so she threw herself on the floor in hopeless anguish.
Her blood grew hot in her veins, her tongue was parched,
her temples throbbed with violence, she gasped rather than
breathed ; it seemed as if her brain was on fire. " Blessed Vir-
gin !" exclaimed she, clasping her hands and turning up her

150 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

strained eyes, "look down with pity, and support me in this
dreadful hour I"

Just as the day began to dawn, she heard a key turn softly
in the door of her apartment. She dreaded lest it should be
Don Ambrosio ; and the very thought of him gave her a sick-
ening pang. It was a female clad in a rustic dress, with her face
concealed by her mantilla. She stepped silently into the room,
looked cautiously round, and then, uncovering her face, re-
vealed the well-known features of the ballad-singer. Inez ut-
tered an exclamation of surprise, almost of joy. The unknown
started back, pressed her finger on her lips enjoining silence,
and beckoned her to follow. She hastily wrapped herself in
her veil, and obeyed. They passed with quick, but noiseless
steps through an antechamber, across a spacious hall, and along
a corridor; all was silent; the household was yet locked in
sleep. They came to a door, to which the unknown applied
a key. Inez's heart misgave her; she knew not but some new
treachery was menacing her ; she laid her cold hand on the
stranger's arm: "Whither are you leading me?" said she.
"To liberty," replied the other, in a whisper.

" Do you know the passages about this mansion?"

" But too welll" replied the girl, with a melancholy shake of
the head. There was an expression of sad veracity in her
countenance, that was not to be distrusted. The door opened
on a small terrace, which was overlooked by several windows
of the mansion.

"We must move across this quickly," said the girl, "or we
may be observed."

They glided over it, as if scarce touching the ground. A
flight of steps led down into the garden ; a wicket at the bot-
tom was readily unbolted : they passed with breathless velocity
along one of the alleys, still in sight of the mansion, in which,
however, no person appeared to be stirring. At length they
came to a low private door in the wall, partly hidden by a fig-
tree. It was secured by rusty bolts, that refused to yield to
their feeble efforts.

' ' Holy Virgin !" exclaimed the stranger, ' ' what is to be done?
one moment more, and we may be discovered."

She seized a stone that lay near by : a few blows, and the
bolt flew back ; the door grated harshly as they opened it, and
the next moment they found themselves in a narrow road.

" Now," said the stranger, " for Granada as quickly as possi

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA.

ble ! The nearer we approach it, the safer we shall he; for the
road will be more frequented."

The imminent risk they ran of being pursued and taken,
gave supernatural strength to their limbs; they flew, rather
than ran. The day had dawned ; the crimson streaks on the
edge of the horizon gave tokens of the approaching sunrise ;
already the light clouds that floated in the western sky were
tinged with gold and purple ; though the broad plain of the
Vega, which now began to open upon their view, was covered
with the dark haze of morning. As yet they only passed a few
straggling peasants on the road, who could have yielded them
no assistance in case of their being overtaken. They continued
to hurry forward, and had gained a considerable distance,
when the strength of Inez, which had only been sustained by
the fever of her mind, began to yield to fatigue : she slackened
her pace, and faltered.

' ' Alas !" said she, ' ' my limbs fail me ! I can go no farther !"

' ' Bear up, bear up, " replied her companion, cheeringly ; " a lit-
tle farther, and we shall be safe : look ! yonder is Granada, just
showing itself in the valley below us. A little farther, and we
shall come to the main road, and then we shall find plenty of
passengers to protect us."

Inez, encouraged, made fresh efforts to get forward, but her
weary limbs were unequal to the eagerness of her mind ; her
mouth and throat were parched by agony and terror: she
gasped for breath, and leaned for support against a rock. ' ' It
is all in vain !" exclaimed she ; " I feel as though I should faint."

" Lean on me," said the other ; "let us get into the shelter of
yon thicket, that will conceal us from the view; I hear the
sound of water, which will refresh you."

With much difficulty they reached the thicket, which over-
hung a small mountain-stream, just where its sparkling waters
leaped over the rock and fell into a natural basin. Here Inez
sank upon the ground, exhausted. Her companion brought
water in the palms of her hands, and bathed her pallid temples.
The cooling drops revived her ; she was enabled to get to the
margin of the stream, and drink of its crystal current ; then,
reclining her head on the bosom of her deliverer, she was first
enabled to murmur forth her heartfelt gratitude.

"Alas!" said the other, "I deserve no thanks; I deserve not
the good opinion you express. In me you behold a victim of
Don Ambrosio's arts. In early years he seduced me from the
cottage of my parents : look ! at the foot of yonder blue moun-

152 BRACEDRIDQE HALL.

tain, in the distance, lies my native village : but it is no longer
a home for me. From thence he lured me, when I was too
young for reflection; he educated me, taught me various ac-
complishments, made me sensible to love, to splendour, to re-
finement ; then, having grown weary of me, he neglected me,
and cast me upon the world. Happily the accomplishments he
taught me have kept me from utter want; and the love with
which he inspired me has kept me from farther degradation.
Yes ! I confess my weakness ; all his perfidy and wrongs can-
not efface him from my heart. I have been brought up to love
him ; I have no other idol : I know him to be base, yet I cannot
help adoring him. I am content to mingle among the hireling
throng that administer to his amusements, that I may still
hover about him, and linger in those halls where I once reign- <1
mistress. What merit, then, have I in assisting your escape?
I scarce know whether I am acting from sympathy and a de-
sire to rescue another victim from his power ; or jealousy, and
an eagerness to remove too powerful a rival !"

While she was yet speaking, the sun rose in all its splendour;
first lighting up the mountain summits, then stealing down
height by height, until its rays gilded the domes and towers of
Granada, which they could partially see from between the
trees, below them. Just then the heavy tones of a bell came
sounding from a distance, echoing, in sullen clang, along the
mountain. Inez turned pale at the sound. She knew it to be
the great bell of the cathedral, rung at sunrise on the day of
the auto da fe, to give note of funeral preparation. Every stroke
beat upon her heart, and inflicted an absolute, corporeal pang.
She started up wildly. "Let us begone!" cried she; "there
is not a moment for delay !"

"Stop!" exclaimed the other; "yonder are horsemen com-
ing over the brow of that distant height ; if I mistake not, Don
Ambrosio is at their head. — Alas! 'tis he! we are lost. Hold!"
continued she; "give me your scarf and veil; wrap yourself in
this mantilla. I will fly up yon footpath that loads to the
heights. I will let the veil flutter as I ascend ; perhaps they
may mistake me for you, and they must dismount to follow
me. Do you hasten forward: you will soon reach the main
road. You have jewels on your fingers : bribe the first mule-
teer you meet, to assist you on your way."

All this was said with hurried and breathless rapidity. The
exchange of garments was made in an instant. The girl dart « •. I
up the mountain-path, her white veil fluttering among the dark

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 153

shrubbery, while Inez, inspired with new strength, or rather
new terror, flew to the road, and trusted to Providence to guide
her tottering steps to Granada.

All Granada was in agitation on the morning of this dismal
day. The heavy bell of the cathedral continued to utter its
clanging tones, that pervaded every pai't of the city, summon-
ing all persons to the tremendous spectacle that was about to
be exhibited. The streets through which the procession was to
pass were crowded with the populace. The windows, the roofs,
every place that could admit a face or a foothold, were alive
with spectators. In the great square, a spacious scaffolding,
like an amphitheatre, was erected, where the sentences of the
prisoners were to be read, and the sermon of faith to be
preached ; and close by were the stakes prepared, where the
condemned were to be burnt to death. Seats were arranged
for the great, the gay, the beautiful ; for such is the horrible
curiosity of human nature, that this cruel sacrifice was attended
with more eagerness than a theatre, or even a bull-feast.

As the day advanced, the scaffolds and balconies were filled
with expecting multitudes; the sun shone brightly upon fair
faces and gallant dresses; one would have thought it some
scene of elegant festivity, instead of an exhibition of human
agony and death. But what a different spectacle and ceremony
was this, from those which Granada exhibited in the days of
her Moorish splendour! "Her galas, her tournaments, her
sports of the ring, her fetes of St. John, her music, her Zam-
oras, and admirable tilts of canes ! Her serenades, her concerts,
her songs in Generaliff e ! The costly liveries of the Abencer-
rages, their exquisite inventions, the skill and valour of the
Alabaces, the superb dresses of the Zegries, Mazas, and Gome-
les !" * — All these were at an end. The days of chivalry were
over. Instead of the prancing cavalcade, with neighing steed
and lively trumpet ; with burnished lance, and helm, and buck-
ler ; with rich confusion of plume, and scarf, and banner, where
purple, and scarlet, and green, and orange, and every gay
colour, were mingled with cloth of gold and fair embroidery ;
instead of this, crept on the gloomy pageant of superstition, in
cowl and sackcloth ; with cross and cofiin, and frightful sym-
bols of human suffering. In place of the frank, hardy knight,
open and brave, with his lady's favour in his casque, and
amorous motto on his shield, looking, by gallant deeds, to win

* Rodd's Civil Wars of Granada,

154 BRACEEEIDOE HALL.

the smile of beauty, came the shaven, unmanly monk, with
downcast eyes, and head and heart bleached in the cold cloister,
secretly exulting in this bigot triumph.

The sound of the bells gave notice that the dismal procession
was advancing. It passed slowly through the principal streets
of the city, bearing in advance the awful banner of the Holy
Office. The prisoners walked singly, attended by confessors, \
and guarded by f amiliars of the inquisition. They were clad
in different garments, according to the nature of their punish
ments; those who were to suffer death wore the hideous
Samarra, painted with flames and demons. The procession
was swelled by choirs of boys, different religious orders and
public dignitaries, and above all, by the fathers of the faith,
moving "with slow pace, and profound gravity, truly tri-
umphing as becomes the principal generals of that great vic-
tory."*

As the sacred banner of the inquisition advanced, the count-
less throng sunk on their knees before it; they bowed their
faces to the very earth as it passed, and then slowly rose again,
like a great undulating billow. A murmur of tongues prevailed
as the prisoners approached, and eager eyes were strained, and
fingers pointed, to distinguish the different orders of penitents,
whose habits denoted the degree of punishment they were to
undergo. But as those drew near whose frightful garb marked
them as destined to the flames, the noise of the rabble subsided ;
they seemed almost to hold in their breath; filled with that
strange and dismal interest with which we contemplate a human
being on the verge of suffering and death.

It is an awful thing — a voiceless, noiseless multitude ! The
hushed and gazing stillness of the surrounding thousands,
heaped on walls, and gates, and roofs, and hanging, as it were,
in clusters, heightened the effect of the pageant that moved
drearily on. The low murmuring of the priests could now be
heard in prayer and exhortation, with the faint responses of
the prisoners, and now and then the voices of the choir at a
distance, chanting the litanies of the saints.

The faces of the prisoners were ghastly and disconsolate.
Even those who had been pardoned, and wore the Sanbenito,
or penitential garment, bore traces of the horrors they had
undergone. Some were feeble and tottering, from long con-
finement ; some crippled and distorted by various tortures ;

• Gonsalviue, p. 186.

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 158

every countenance was a dismal page, on whicK might be read
the secrets of their prison-house. But in the looks of those con-
demned to death, there was something fierce and eager. They
seemed men harrowed up by the past, and desperate as to the
future. They were anticipating, with spirits fevered by despair,
and fixed and clenched determination, the vehement struggle
with agony and death which they were shortly to undergo.
Some cast now and then a wild and anguished look about them,
upon the shining day; the "sun-bright palaces, "the gay, the
beautiful world, which they were soon to quit for ever ; or a
glance of sudden indignation at the thronging thousands, happy
in liberty and life, who seemed, in contemplating their fright'
ful situation, to exult in their own comparative security.

One among the condemned, however, was an exception to
these remarks. It was an aged man, somewhat bowed down,
with a serene, though dejected countenance, and a beaming,
melancholy eye. It was the alchymist. The populace looked
upon him with a degree of compassion, which they were not
prone to feel towards criminals condemned by the inquisition;
but when they were told that he was convicted of the crime of
magic, they drew back with awe and abhorrence.

The procession had reached the grand square. The first part
had already mounted the scaffolding, and the condemned were
approaching. The press of the populace became excessive, and
was repelled, as it were, in billows by the guards. Just as the
condemned were entering the square, a shrieking was heard
among the crowd. A female, pale, frantic, dishevelled, was
seen struggling through the multitude. "My father! my
father!" was all the cry she uttered, but it thrilled through
every heart. The crowd instinctively drew back, and made
way for her as she advanced.

The poor alchymist had made his peace with Heaven, and,
by a hard struggle, had closed his heart upon the world, when
the voico of his child called him once more back to worldly
thought and agony. He turned towards the well-known voice •,
his knees smote together ; he endeavoured to stretch forth his
pinioned arms, and felt himself clasped in the embraces of his
child. The emotions of both were too agonizing for utterance.
Convulsive sobs and broken exclamations, and embraces more
of anguish than tenderness, were all that passed between them.
The procession was interrupted for a moment. The astonished
monks and familiars were filled with involuntary respect, at
the agony of natural affection. Ejaculations of pity broke

156 4RACEBRIDGE HALL.

from the crowd, touched by the filial piety, the extraordinary
and hopeless anguish, of so young and beautiful a being.

Every attempt to soothe her, and prevail on her to retire,
was unheeded; at length they endeavoured to separate her
from her father by force. The movement roused her from her
temporary abandonment. With a sudden paroxysm of fury,
she snatched a sword from one of the familiars. Her late pale1
countenance was flushed with rage, and fire flashed from her
once soft and languishing eyes. The guards shrunk back with
awe. There was something in this filial frenzy, this feminine
tenderness wrought up to desperation, that touched even their
hardened hearts. They endeavoured to pacify her, but in vain.
Her eye was eager and quick, as the she-wolf's guarding her
young. With one arm she pressed her father to her bosom,
with the other she menaced every one that approached.

The patience of the guards was soon exhausted. They had
held back in awe, but not in fear. With all her desperation
the weapon was soon wrested from her feeble hand, and she
was borne shrieking and struggling among the crowd. The
rabble murmured compassion ; but such was the dread inspired
by the inquisition, that no one attempted to interfere.

The procession again resumed its march. Inez was ineffect-
ually struggling to release herself from the hands of the fami-
liars that detained her, when suddenly she saw Don Ambrosio
before her. " Wretched girl!" exclaimed he with fury, "why
have you fled from your friends ? Deliver her," said he to the
familiars, " to my domestics; she is under my protection."

His creatures advanced to seize her. "Oh, no! oh, no!"
cried she, with new terrors, and clinging to the familiars, " I
have fled from no friends. He is not my protector ! He is the
murderer of my father !"

The familiars were perplexed; the crowd pressed on, with
eager curiosity. "Stand off!" cried the fiery Ambrosio, dash-(
ing the throng from around him. Then turning to the familiars,
with sudden moderation, "My friends," said he, "deliver this
poor girl to me. Her distress has turned her brain ; she has
escaped from her friends and protectors this morning; but a
Uttle quiet and kind treatment will restore her to tranquillity."

"I am not mad! I am not mad!" cried she, vehemently.
" Oh, save me ! — save me from these men ! I have no protector
on c;irth but my father, and him they are murdering!"

The f amiliars shook their heads ; her wildness corroborated
tlie assertions of Don Ambrosio, and his apparent rank com-

TEE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 167

manded respect and belief. They relinquished their charge to
him, and he was consigning the struggling Inez to his creatures.

"Let go your hold, villain!" cried a voice from among the
crowd — and Antonio was seen eagerly tearing his way through
the press of people.

' ' Seize him ! seize him !" cried Don Ambrosio to the familiars,
" 'tis an accomplice of the sorcerer's."

"Liar!" retorted Antonio, as he thrust the mob to the right
and left, and forced himself to the spot.

The sword of Don Ambrosio flashed in an instant from the
scabbard; the student was armed, and equally alert. There
was a fierce clash of weapons : the crowd made way for them
as they fought, and closed again, so as to hide them from the
view of Inez. All was tumult and confusion for a moment;
when there was a kind of shout from the spectators, and the
mob again opening, she beheld, as she thought, Antonio welter-
ing in his blood.

This new shock was too great for her already overstrained
Intellect. A giddiness seized upon her ; every thing seemed to
whirl before her eyes ; she gasped some incoherent words, and
sunk senseless upon the ground.

Days — weeks elapsed, before Inez returned to consciousness.
At length she opened her eyes, as if out of a troubled sleep.
She was lying upon a magnificent bed, in a chamber richly
furnished with pier-glasses, and massive tables inlaid with
silver, of exquisite workmanship. The walls were covered
with tapestry; the cornices richly gilded; through the door,
which stood open, she perceived a superb saloon, with statues
and crystal lustres, and a magnificent suite of apartments
beyond. The casements of the room were open to admit the
soft breath of summer, which stole in, laden with perfumes
from a neighbouring garden ; from whence, also, the refreshing
sound of fountains and the sweet notes of birds came in mingled
music to her ear.

Female attendants were moving, with noiseless step, about
the chamber; but she feared to address them. She doubted
whether this was not all delusion, or whether she was not still
in the palace of Don Ambrosio, and that her escape, and all its
circumstances, had not been but a feverish dream. She closed
her eyes again, endeavouring to recall the past, and to sepa-
rate the real from the imaginary. The last scenes of con-
sciousness, however, rushed too forcibly, with all their horrors,
to her mind to be doubted, and she turned shuddering from

158 BRACEBWDGE HALL.

the recollection, to gaze once more on the quiet and sereno
magnificence around her. As she again opened her eyes, they
rested on an object that at once dispelled every alarm. At the
head of her bed sat a venerable form, watching over her with
a look of fond anxiety — it was her father !

I will not attempt to describe the scene that ensued ; nor the
moments of rapture which more than repaid all the sufferings
that her affectionate heart had undergone. As soon as their
feelings had become more calm, the aJchymist stepped out of
the room to introduce a stranger, to whom he was indebted for
his life and liberty. He returned, leading in Antonio, no
longer in his poor scholar's garb, but in the rich dress of a
nobleman.

The feelings of Inez were almost overpowered by these sud-
den reverses, and it was some time before she was sufficiently
composed to comprehend the explanation of this seeming
romance.

It appeared that the lover, who had sought her affections in
the lowly guise of a student, was only son and heir of a power-
ful grandee of Valentia. He had been placed at the university
of Salamanca; but a lively curiosity, and an eagerness for
adventure, had induced him to abandon the university, with-
out his father's consent, and to visit various parts of Spain.
His rambling inclination satisfied, he had remained incognito
for a time at Granada, until, by farther study and self -regula-
tion, he could prepare himself to return home with credit, and
atone for his transgressions against paternal authority.

How hard he had studied, does not remain on record. All
that we know is his romantic adventure of the tower. It was
at first a mere youthful caprice, excited by a glimpse of a
beautiful face. In becoming a disciple of the alchymist, he
probably thought of nothing more than pursuing a light love
affair. Farther acquaintance, however, had completely fixed
his affections ; and he had determined to conduct Inez and her
father to Valentia, and to trust to her merits to secure his
father's consent to their union.

In the meantime, he had been traced to his concealment.
His father had received intelligence of his being entangled in
the snares of a mysterious adventurer and his daughter, and
likely to become the dupe of the fascinations of the latter.
Trusty emissaries had been despatched to seize upon him by
main force, and convey him without delay to the paternal
home.

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 159

What eloquence he had used with his father, to convince him
of the innocence, the honour, and the high descent of the
alchymist, and of the exalted worth of his daughter, does not
appear. All that we know is, that the father, though a very
passionate, was a very reasonable man, as appears by his con-
senting that his son should return to Granada, and conduct
Inez as his affianced bride to Valentia. \

Away, then, Don Antonio hurried back, full of joyous antici- 1
pations. He still forbore to throw off his disguise, fondly pic-
turing to himself what would be the surprise of Inez, when,
having won her heart and hand as a poor wandering scholar,
he should raise her and her father at once to opulence and
splendour.

On his arrival he had been shocked at finding the tower
deserted by its inhabitants. In vain he sought for intelligence
concerning them; a mystery hung over their disappearance
which he could not penetrate, until he was thunderstruck, on
accidentally reading a list of the prisoners at the impending
auto da fe, to find the name of his venerable master among the
condemned.

It was the very morning of the execution. The procession
was already on its way to the grand square. Not a moment
was to be lost. The grand inquisitor was a relation of Don
Antonio, though they had never met. His first impulse was to
make himself known; to exert all his family influence, the
weight of his name, and the power of his eloquence, in vindica-
tion of the alchymist. But the grand inquisitor was already
proceeding, in all his pomp, to the place where the fatal cere-
mony was to be performed. How was he to be approached ?
Antonio threw himself into the crowd, in a fever of anxiety,
and was forcing his way to the scene of horror, where he
arrived just in time to rescue Inez, as has been mentioned.

It was Don Ambrosio that fell in their contest. Being desper-
ately wounded, and thinking his end approaching, he had con-
fessed to an attending father of the inquisition, that he was the
sole cause of the alchymist's condemnation, and that the evi-
dence on which it was grounded was altogether false. The
testimony of Don Antonio came in corroboration of this
avowal ; and his relationship to the grand inquisitor had, in all
probability, its proper weight. Thus was the poor alchymist
snatched, in a manner, from the very flames ; and so great had
been the sympathy awakened in his case, that for once a popu-
lace rejoiced at being disappointed of an execution.

160 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

The residue of the story may readily be imagined, by every
one versed in this valuable kind of history. Don Antonio
espoused the lovely Inez, and took her and her father with him
to Valentia. As she had been a loving and dutiful daughter,
so she proved a true and tender wife. It was not long before
Don Antonio succeeded to his father's titles and estates, and
he and his fair spouse were renowned for being the handsom-
est and happiest couple in all Valentia.

As to Don Ambrosio, he partially recovered to the enjoyment
of a broken constitution and a blasted name, and hid his
remorse and disgrace in a convent : while the poor victim of
his arts, who had assisted Inez in her escape, unable to con-
quer the early passion that he had awakened in her bosom,
though convinced of the baseness of the object, retired from
the world, and became an humble sister in a nunnery.

The worthy alchymist took up his abode with his children.
A pavilion, in the garden of their palace, was assigned to lu'm
as a laboratory, where he resumed his researches with reno-
vated ardour, after the grand secret. He was now and then
assisted by his son-in-law ; but the latter slackened grievously
in his zeal and diligence, after marriage. Still he would listen
with profound gravity and attention to the old man's rhapso-
dies, and his quotations from Paracelsus, Sandivogius, and
Pietro D'Abano, which daily grew longer and longer. In this
way the good alchymist lived on quietly and comfortably, to
what is called a good old age, that is to say, an age that is
good for nothing ; and unfortunately for mankind, was hurried
out of life in his ninetieth year, just as he was on the point of
discovering the Philosopher's Stone.

Such was the story of the captain's friend, with which we
whiled away the morning. The captain was, every now and
then, interrupted by questions and remarks, which I have not
mentioned, lest I should break the continuity of the tale. He
was a little disturbed, also, once or twice, by the general, who
fell asleep, and breathed rather hard, to the great horror and
annoyance of Lady Lillycraft. In a long and tender love
scene, also, which was particularly to her ladyship's taste, the
unlucky general, having his head a little sunk upon his breast,
kept making a sound at regular intervals, very much like the
word pish, long drawn out. At length he made an odd abrupt
guttural sound, that suddenly awoke him ; he hemmed, looked
about with a slight degree of consternation, and then began to

THE STUDENT OF SALAMANCA. 161

play with her ladyship's work-bag, which, however, she rather
pettishly withdrew. The steady sound of the captain's voice
was still too potent a soporific for the poor general; he kept
gleaming up and sinking in the socket, until the cessation of
the tale again roused him, when he started awake, put his
foot down upon Lady Lillycraft's cur, the sleeping Beauty,
which yelped and seized him by the leg, and, in a moment,
the whole library resounded with yelpings and exclamations.
Never did man more completely mar his fortunes while he was
asleep. Silence being at length restored, the company expressed
their thanks to the captain, and gave various opinions of the
story. The parson's mind, I found, had been continually run-
ning upon the leaden manuscripts, mentioned in the beginning,
as dug up at Granada, and he put several eager questions to
the captain on the subject. The general could not well make
out the drift of the story, but thought it a little confused. "I
am glad, however," said he, "that they burnt the old chap
of the tower; I have no doubt he was a notorious impostor."

[BND OF VOL. OMB.]

BRACEBRIDGE HALL;

OB,

THE HUMOURISTS.

A MEDLEY.
BY GEOFFREY CRAYON, GENT.

VOLUME SECOND.

Tinder this cloud I walk, Gentlemen; pardon my rude assault. I am a traveller,
•who, having surveyed most of the terrestrial angles of this globe, am hithei
arrived, to peruse this little spot.— CHRISTMAS ORDINARY.

ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN.

His certain life, that never can deceive him,

Is full of thousand sweets, and rich content;
The smooth-leaved beeches in the field receive him

With coolest shade, till noontide's heat be spent.
His life is neither tost in boisterous seas

Or the vexatious world ; or lost in slothful ease.
Pleased and full blest he lives, when he his God can please.

— PHINEAS FLETCHER.

I TAKE great pleasure in accompanying the Squire in his per-
ambulations about his estate, in which he is often attended by
a kind of cabinet council. His prime minister, the steward,
is a very worthy and honest old man, that assumes a right of
way ; that is to say, a right to have his own way, from having
lived time out of mind on the place. He loves the estate even
better than he does the Squire ; and thwarts the latter sadly in
many of his projects of improvement, being a little prone to
disapprove of every plan that does not originate with himself.

In the course of one of these perambulations, I have known
the Squire to point out some important alteration which he

164 BRACEBRTDOE HALL.

was contemplating, in the disposition or cultivation of the
grounds; this, of course, would be opposed by the steward, and
a long argument would ensue, over a stile, or on a rising piece
of ground, until the Squire, who has a high opinion of the
other's ability and integrity, would be fain to give up the
point. This concession, I observed, would immediately mollify
ithe old man ; and, after walking over a field or two in silence,
'with his hands behind his back, chewing the cud of reflection,
he would suddenly turn to the Squire, and observe, that "he
had been turning the matter over in his mind, and, upon the
whole, he believed he would take his honour's advice."

Christy, the huntsman, is another of the Squire's occasional
attendants, to whom he continually refers in all matters of
local history, as to a chronicle of the estate, having, in a man-
ner, been acquainted with many of the trees, from the very
time that they were acorns. Old Nimrod, as has been shown,
is rather pragmatical in those points of knowledge on which
he values himself; but the Squire rarely contradicts him, and
is, in fact, one of the most indulgent potentates that ever was
henpecked by his ministry.

He often laughs about it himself, and evidently yields to
these old men more from the bent of his own humour than from
any want of proper authority. He likes this honest indepen-
dence of old age, and is well aware that these trusty followers
love and honour him in their hearts. He is perfectly at ease
about his own dignity, and the respect of those around him ;
nothing disgusts him soone1* than any appearance of fawning
or sycophancy.

I really have seen no display of royal state, that could com-
pare with one of the Squire's progresses about his paternal fields
and through his hereditary woodlands, with several of these
i faithful adherents about him, and followed by a body-guard of
dogs. He encourages a frankness and manliness of deport-
ment among his dependants, and is the personal friend of his
tenants; inquiring into their concerns, and assisting them in
times of difficulty and hardship. This has rendered him one of
the most popular, and of course one of the happiest, of land-
lords.

Indeed, I do not know a more enviable condition of life,
than that of an English gentleman, of sound judgment and
good feelings, who passes the greater part of his time on an
hereditary estate in the country. From the excellence of the
roads, and the rapidity and exactness of the public convey*

ENGIISII COUNTRY GENTLEMEN. 165

ances, he is enabled to command all the comforts and conven-
iences, all the intelligence and novelties of the capital, while
he is removed from its hurry and distraction. He has ample
means of occupation and amusement, within his own domains ;
he may diversify his time, by rural occupations, by rural
sports, by study, and by the delights of friendly society col-
lected within his own hospitable halls.

Or, if his views and feelings are of a more extensive and
liberal nature, he has it greatly in his power to do good, and
to have that good immediately reflected back upon himself.
He can render essential services to his country, by assisting in
the disinterested administration of the laws ; by watching ovei
the opinions and principles of the lower orders around him ; by
diffusing among them those lights which may be important
to their welfare; by mingling frankly among them, gaining
their confidence, becoming the immediate auditor of their com-
plaints, informing himself of their wants, making himself a
channel through which their grievances may be quietly com-
municated to the proper sources of mitigation and relief ; or
by becoming, if need be, the intrepid and incorruptible guar-
dian of their liberties — the enlightened champion of their
rights.

All this, it appears to me, can be done without any sacrifice
of personal dignity, without any degrading arts of popularity,
Avithout any truckling to vulgar prejudices or concurrence in
vulgar clamour ; but by the steady influence of sincere and
friendly counsel, of fair, upright, and generous deportment.
Whatever may be said of English mobs and English dema-
gogues, I have never met with a people more open to reason,
more considerate in their tempers, more tractable by argument
in the roughest times, than the English. They are remarkably
quick at discerning and appreciating whatever is manly and
honourable. They are, by nature and habit, methodical and
orderly ; and they feel the value of all that is regular and
respectable. They may occasionally be deceived by sophistry,
and excited into turbulence by public distresses and the mis-
representations of designing men ; but open their eyes, and they
will eventually rally round the landmarks of steady truth and
deliberate good sense. They are fond of established customs ;
they are fond of long-established names ; and that love of order
and quiet which characterizes the nation, gives a vast influence
to the descendants of the old families, whose forefathers have
been lords of the soil from time immemorial.

166 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

It is when the rich and well-educated and highly -privileged
classes neglect their duties, when they neglect to study the in-
terests, and conciliate the affections, and instruct the opinions,
and champion the rights of the people, that the latter become
discontented and turbulent, and fall into the hands of dema
gogues : the demagogue always steps in, where the patriot is
wanting. There is a common high-handed cant among the
high-feeding, and, as they fancy themselves, high-minded men,
about putting down the mob ; but all true physicians know that
it is better to sweeten the blood than attack the tumour, to
apply the emollient rather than the cautery. It is absurd, in a
country like England, where there is so much freedom, and
such a jealousy of right, for any man to assume an aristocrati-
cal tone, and to talk superciliously of the common people.
There is no rank that makes him independent of the opinions
and affections of his fellow-men ; there is no rank nor distinc-
tion that severs him from his fellow-subjects ; and if, by any
gradual neglect or assumption on the one side, and discontent
and jealousy on the other, the orders of society should really
separate, let those who stand on the eminence beware that the
chasm is not mining at their feet. The orders of society, in all
well-constituted governments, are mutually bound together,
and important to each other ; there can be no such tiling in a
free government as a vacuum ; and whenever one is likely to
take place, by the drawing off of the rich and intelligent from
the poor, the bad passions of society will rush in to fill up the
space, and rend the whole asunder.

Though born and brought up in a republic, and more and
more confirmed in republican principles by every year's obser-
vation and experience, yet I am not insensible to the excellence
that may exist in other forms of government, nor to the fact
that they may be more suitable to the situation and circum-
stances of the countries in which they exist : I have endeav-
oured rather to look at them as they are, and to observe how
they are calculated to effect the end which they propose. Con-
sidering, therefore, the mixed nature of the government of this
country, and its representative form, I have looked with admi-
ration at the manner in which the wealth and influence and
intelligence were spread over its whole surface ; not as in some
monarchies, drained from the country, and collected in towns
and cities. I have considered the great rural establishments of
the nobility, and the lesser establishments of the gentry, as so
many reservoirs of wealth and intelligence distributed about

ENGLISH COUNTRY GENTLEMEN". 16?

the kingdom, apart from the towns, to irrigate, freshen, and
fertilize the surrounding country. I have looked upon them,
too, as the august retreat of patriots and statesmen, where, in
the enjoyment of honourable independence and elegant leisure,
they might train up their minds to appear in those legislative
assemblies, whose debates and decisions form the study and
precedents of other nations, and involve the interests of the
world.

I have been both surprised and disappointed, therefore, at
finding that on this subject I was often indulging in an Utopian
dream, rather than a well-founded opinion. I have been
concerned at finding that these fine estates were too often in-
volved, and mortgaged, or placed in the hands of creditors, and
the owners exiled from their paternal lands. There is an
extravagance, I am told, that runs parallel with wealth; a
lavish expenditure among the great ; a senseless competition
among the aspiring; a heedless, joyless dissipation among all
the upper ranks, that often beggars even these splendid estab-
lishments, breaks down the pride and principles of their pos-
sessors, and makes too many of them mere place-hunters, or
shifting absentees. It is thus that so many are thrown into the
hands of government ; and a court, which ought to be the most
pure and honourable in Europe, is so often degraded by noble,
but importunate time-servers. It is thus, too, that so many
become exiles from their native land, crowding the hotels of
foreign countries, and expending upon thankless strangers the
wealth so hardly drained from their laborious peasantry. I
have looked upon these latter with a mixture of censure and
concern. Knowing the almost bigoted fondness of an English-
man for his native home, I can conceive what must be their
compunction and regret, when, amidst the sunburnt plains of
France, they call to mind the green fields of England; the
hereditary groves which they have abandoned ; and the hospi-
table roof of their fathers, which they have left desolate, or to
be inhabited by strangers. But retrenchment is no plea for
abandonment of country. They have risen with the prosperity
of the land; let them abide its fluctuations, and conform to
its fortunes. It is not for the rich to fly, because the country
is suffering: let them share, in their relative proportion, the
common lot ; they owe it to the land that has elevated them to
honour and affluence. When the poor have to diminish their
scanty morsels of bread ; when they have to compound with
the cravings of nature, and study with how little they can do,

168 SRACESRIDGE HALL

and not be starved ; it is not then for the rich to fly, and di-
minish still farther the resources of the poor, that they them-
selves may live in splendour in a cheaper country. Let them
rather retire to their estates, and there practise retrenchment.
Let them return to that noble simplicity, that practical good
sense, that honest pride, which form the foundation of true
English character, and from them they may again rear the
edifice of fair and honourable prosperity.

On the rural habits of the English nobility and gentry, on
the manner in which they discharge their duties of their patri-
monial possessions, depend greatly the virtue and welfare of
the nation. So long as they pass the greater part of their time
in the quiet and purity of the country ; surrounded by the
monuments of their illustriotis ancestors ; surrounded by every
thing that can inspire generous pride, noble emulation, and
amiable and magnanimous sentiment ; so long they are safe,
and in them the nation may repose its interests and its honour.
But the moment that they become the servile throngers of
court avenues, and give themselves up to the political intrigues
and heartless dissipations of the metropolis, that moment they
lose the real nobility of their natures, and become the mere
leeches of the country.

That the great majority of nobility and gentry in England
are endowed with high notions of honour and independence, I
thoroughly believe. They have evidenced it lately on very
important questions, and have given an example of adherence
to principle, in preference to party and power, that must have
astonished many of the venal and obsequious courts of Europe.
Such are the glorious effects of freedom, when infused into a
constitution. But it seems to me, that they are apt to forget
the positive nature of their duties, and to fancy that their emi-
nent privileges are only so many moans of self-indulgence.
They should recollect, that in a constitution like that of Eng-
land, the titled orders are intended to be as useful as they are
ornamental, and it is their virtues alone that can render them
both. Their duties are divided between the sovereign and the
subjects; surrounding and giving lustre and dignity to the
throne, and at the same time tempering and mitigating its
rays, until they are transmitted in mild and genial radiance to
the people. Born to leisure and opulence, they owe the exer-
cise of their talents, and the expenditure of their wealth, to
their native country. They may be compared to the clouds;
which, being drawn up by the sun, and elevated in the heavens,

A BACHELORS CONFESSIONS. 169

reflect and magnify his splendour ; while they repay the earth,
from which they derive their sustenance, by returning their
treasures to its bosom in f ertilizing showers.

A BACHELOR'S CONFESSIONS.

"I'll live a private, pensive single life."

— The Collier of Croydon.

I WAS sitting in my room, a morning or two since, reading,
when some one tapped at the door, and Master Simon entered.
He had an unusually fresh appearance ; he had put on a bright
green riding-coat, with a bunch of violets in the button-hole,
and had the air of an old bachelor trying to rejuvenate himself.
He had not, however, his usual briskness and vivacity ; but
loitered about the room with somewhat of absence of manner,
humming the old song — " Go, lovely rose, tell her that wastes
her time and me ;" and then, leaning against the window, and
looking upon the landscape, he uttered a very audible sigh.
As I had not been accustomed to see Master Simon in a pensive
mood, I thought there might be some vexation preying on his
mind, and I endeavoured to introduce a cheerful strain of con-
versation ; but he was not in the vein to follow it up, and pro-
posed that we should take a walk.

It was a beautiful morning, of that soft vernal temperature,
that seems to thaw all the frost out of one's blood, and to set
all nature in a ferment. The very fishes felt its influence ; the
cautious trout ventured out of his dark hole to seek his mate ;
the roach and the dace rose up to the surface of the brook to
bask in the sunshine, and the amorous frog piped from among
the rushes. If ever an oyster can really fall in love, as has
been said or sung, it must be on such a morning.

The weather certainly had its effect even upon Master Simon,
for he seemed obstinately bent upon the pensive mood. Instead
of stepping briskly along, smacking his dog-whip, whistling
quaint ditties, or telh'ng sporting anecdotes, he leaned on my
arm, and talked about the approaching nuptials ; from whence
he made several digressions upon the character of womankind,
touched a little upon the tender passion, and made sundry very
excellent, though rather trite, observations upon disappoint-
ments in love. It was evident that he had something on his

170 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

mind which he wished 10 impart, but felt awkward in ap-
proaching it. I was curious to see to what this strain would
lead; but was determined not to assist him. Indeed, I mis-
chievously pretended to tun. the conversation, and talked of
his usual topics, dogs, horses, and hunting ; but he was very
brief in his replies, and invariably got back, by hook or by
crook, into the sentimental vein.

At length we came to a clump of trees that overhung a whis-
pering brook, with a rustic bench at their feet. The trees
were grievously scored with letters and devices, which had
grown out of all shape and size by the growth of the bark ; and
it appeared that this grove had served as a kind of register of
the family loves from time immemorial. Here Master Simon
made a pause, pulled up a tuft of flowers, threw them one by
one into the water, and at length, turning somewhat abruptly
upon me, asked me if I had ever been in love. I confess the
question startled me a little, as I am not over-fond of making
confessions of my amorous follies ; and above all, should never
dream of choosing my friend Master Simon for a confidant.
He did not wait, however, for a reply ; the inquiry was merely
a prelude to a confession on his own part, and after several
circumlocutions and whimsical preambles, he fairly disbur-
thened himself of a very tolerable story of his having been
crossed in love.

The reader will, very probably, suppose that it related to the
gay widow who jilted him not long since at Doncaster races; —
no such thing. It was about a sentimental passion that he
once had for a most beautiful young lady, who wrote poetry
and played on the harp. He used to serenade her ; and, in-
deed, he described several tender and gallant scenes, in which
he was evidently picturing himself in his mind's eye as some
elegant hero of romance, though, unfortunately for the tale, I
only saw him as he stood before me, a dapper little old bache-
lor, with a face like an apple that has dried with the bloom on
it.

What were the particulars of this tender tale, I have already
forgotten; indeed, I listened to it with a heart like a very
pebble-stone, having hard work to repress a smile while Master
Simon was putting on the amorous swain, uttering every now
and then a sigh, and endeavouring to look sentimental and
melancholy.

All that I recollect is that the lady, according to his account,
was certainly a little touched ; for she used to accept all the

A BACHELOR'S CONFESSIONS. 171

music that he copied for her harp, and all the patterns that he
drew for her drosses ; and he began to flatter himself, after a
long course of delicate attentions, that he was gradually fan-
ning up a gentle flame in her heart, when she suddenly accept-
ed the hand of a rich, boisterous, fox-hunting baronet, without
either music or sentiment, who carried her by storm after a
fortnight's courtship.

Master Simon could not help concluding by some observation
about ' ' modest merit, " and the power of gold over the sex. As
a remembrance of his passion, he pointed out a heart carved
on the bark of one of the trees ; but which, in the process of
time, had grown out into a large excrescence ; and he showed
me a lock of her hair, which he wore in a true-lover's knot, in
a large gold brooch.

I have seldom met with an old bachelor that had not, at some
time or other, his nonsensical moment, when he would become
tender and sentimental, talk about the concerns of the heart,
and have some confession of a delicate nature to make. Al-
most every man has some little trait of romance in his Me,
which he looks back to with fondness, and about which he is
apt to grow garrulous occasionally. He recollects himself as
he was at the time, young and gamesome ; and forgets that his
hearers have no other idea of the hero of the tale, but such as
he may appear at the time of telling it ; perad venture, a with-
ered, whimsical, spindle-shanked old gentleman. With mar-
ried men, it is true, this is not so frequently the case : their
amorous romance is apt to decline after marriage ; why, I cannot
for the life of me imagine ; but with a bachelor, though it may
slumber, it never dies. It is always liable to break out again
in transient flashes, and never so much as on a spring morning
in the country ; or on a winter evening when seated in his soli-
tary chamber stirring up the fire and talking of matrimony.

The moment that Master Simon had gone through his con-
fession, and, to use the common phrase, "had made a clean
breast of it," he became quite himself again. He had settled
the point which had been worrying his mind, and doubtless
considered himself established as a man of sentiment in my
opinion. Before we had finished our morning's stroll, he was
singing as blithe as a grasshopper, whistling to his dogs, and
telling droll stories ; and I recollect that he was particularly
facetious that day at dinner on the subject of matrimony, and
uttered several excellent jokes, not to be found in Joe Miller,

172 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

that made the bride elect blush and look down,- but set all the
old gentlemen at the table in a roar, and absolutely brought
tears into the general's eyes.

ENGLISH GRAVITY.

"Merrie England!"— Ancient Phrtue.

THERE is nothing so rare as for a man to ride his hobby with-
out molestation. I find the Squire has not so undisturbed an
indulgence in his humours as I had imagined; but has been
repeatedly thwarted of late, and has suffered a kind of well-
meaning persecution from a Mr. Faddy, an old gentleman of
some weight, at least of purse, who has recently moved into
the neighbourhood. He is a worthy and substantial manufac-
turer, who, having accumulated a large fortune by dint of
Bteam-engines and spinning-jennies, has retired from business,
and set up for a country gentleman. He has taken an old
country-seat, and refitted it ; and painted and plastered it, until
it looks not unlike his own manufactory. He has been par-
ticularly careful in mending the walls and hedges, and putting
up notices of spring-guns and man-traps in every part of his
premises. Indeed, he shows great jealousy about his territorial
rights, having stopped up a footpath that led across his fields,
and given warning, in staring letters, that whoever was found
trespassing on those grounds would be prosecuted with the
utmost rigour of the law. He has brought into the country
with him all the practical maxims of town, and the bustling
habits of business; and is one of those sensible, useful, prosing,
troublesome, intolerable old gentlemen, that go about wearying
and worrying society with excellent plans for public utility.

He is very much disposed to be on intimate terms with the
Squire, and calls on him every now and then, with some pro-
ject for the good of the neighbourhood, which happens to run
diametrically opposite to some one or other of the Squire's
peculiar notions; but which is "too sensible a measure" to be
openly opposed. He has annoyed him excessively, by enforc-
ing the vagrant laws ; persecuting the gipsies, and endeavour-
ing to suppress country wakes and holiday games ; which he
considers great nuisances, and reprobates as causes of the dead-
ly sin of idleness,

ENGLISH GRAVITY. 178

There is evidently in all this a little of the ostentation of newly-
acquired consequence ; the tradesman is gradually swelling into
the aristocrat ; and he begins to grow excessively intolerant of
every thing that is not genteel. He has a great deal to say
about "the Common people;" talks much of his park, his pre-
serves, and the necessity of enforcing the game-laws more
etrictly; and makes frequent use of the phrase, "the gentry
of the neighbourhood."

He came to the Hall lately, with a face full of business, that
he and the Squire, to use his own words, "might lay their
heads together," to hit upon some mode of putting a stop to the
frolicking at the village on the approaching May-day. It
drew, he said, idle people together from all parts of the neigh-
bourhood, who spent the day fiddling, dancing, and carousing,
instead of staying at home to work for their families.

Now, as the Squire, unluckily, is at the bottom of these May-
day revels, it may be supposed that the suggestions of the
sagacious Mr. Faddy were not received with the best grace in
the world. It is true, the old gentleman is too courteous to
show any temper to a guest in his own house ; but no sooner
was he gone, than the indignation of the Squire found vent, at
having his poetical cobwebs invaded by this buzzing, blue-
bottle fly of traffic. In his warmth, he inveighed against the
whole race of manufacturers, who, I found, were sore dis-
turbers of his comfort. ' ' Sir, " said he, with emotion, ' ' it makes
my heart bleed, to see all our fine streams dammed up, and
bestrode by cotton-mills ; our valleys smoking with steam-en-
gines, and the din of the hammer and the loom scaring away
all our rural delight. What's to become of merry old England,
when its manor-houses are all turned into manufactories, and
its sturdy peasantry into pin-makers and stocking- weavers? I
have looked in vain for merry Sherwood, and all the green-
wood haunts of Robin Hood; the whole country is covered
with manufacturing towns. I have stood on the ruins of Dud-
ley Castle, and looked round, with an aching heart, on what
were once its feudal domains of verdant and beautiful coun-
try. Sir, I beheld a mere campus phlegraB ; a region of fire ;
reeking with coal-pits, and furnaces, and smelting-houses,
vomiting forth flames and smoke. The pale and ghastly peo-
ple, toiling among vile exhalations, looked more like demons
than human beings; the clanking wheels and engines, seen
through the murky atmosphere, looked like instruments of
torture in this pandemonium. What is to become of the coun-

174 BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

try, with these evils rankling in its very core? Sir, these manu-
facturers will be the ruin of our rural manners; they will
destroy the national character; they will not leave materials
for a single line of poetry !"

The Squire is apt to wax eloquent on such themes ; and I
could hardly help smiling at this whimsical lamentation over
national industry and public improvement. I am told, how-
ever, that he really grieves at the growing spirit of trade,
as destroying the charm of life. He considers every new
shorthand mode of doing things, as an inroad of snug sordid
method ; and thinks that this will soon become a mere matter-
of-fact world, where life will be reduced to a mathematical cal-
culation of conveniences, and every thing will be done by
steam.

He maintains, also, that the nation has declined in its free
and joyous spirit, in proportion as it has turned its attention to
commerce and manufactures; and that, in old times, when
England was an idler, it was also a merrier little island. In
support of this opinion, he adduces the frequency and splen-
dour of ancient festivals and merry-makings, and the hourly
spirit with which they were kept up by all classes of people.
His memory is stored with the accounts given by Stow, in his
Survey of London, of the holiday revels at the inns of court,
the Christmas mummeries, and the masquings and bonfires
about the streets. London, he says, in those days, resembled
the continental citiet in its picturesque manners and amuse-
ments. The court used to dance after dinner, on public occa-
sions. After the coronation dinner of Richard II. for example,
the king, the prelates, the nobles, the knights, and the rest of
the company, danced in Westminster Hall to the music of the
minstrels. The example of the court was followed by the mid-
dling classes, and so down to the lowest, and the whole nation
was a dancing, jovial nation. He quotes a lively city picture
of the times, given by Stow, which resembles the lively scenes
one may often see in the gay city of Paris ; for he tells us that on
holidays, after evening prayers, the maidens in London used to
assemble before the door, in sight of their masters and dames,
and while one played on a timbrel, the others danced for gar-
lands, hanged athwart the street.

"Where will we meet with such merry groups now-a-days?"
the Squire will exclaim, shaking his head mournfully;— "and
then as to the gayety that prevailed in dress throughout all
ranks of society, and made the very streets so fine and pictur-

ENGLISH GRAVITY. 175

esque: 'I have myself,' says Gervaise Markham, 'met an ordi-
nary tapster in his silk stockings, garters deep fringed with
gold lace, the rest of his apparel suitable, with cloak lined with
velvet 1 ' Nashe, too, who wrote in 1593, exclaims at the finery
of the nation : ' England, the player's stage of gorgeous attire,
the ape of all nations' superfluities, the continual masquer in
outlandish habiliments."'

Such are a few of the authorities quoted by the Squire, by
way of contrasting what he supposes to have been the former
vivacity of the nation with its present monotonous character.
"John Bull," he will say, "was then a gay cavalier, with his
sword by his side and a feather in his cap ; but he is now a plod-
ding citizen, in snuff-coloured coat and gaiters."

By the by, there really appears to have been some change in
the national character, since the days of which the Squire is so
fond of talking ; those days when this little island acquired its
favourite old title of ' ' merry England. " This may be attributed
in part to the growing hardships of the times, and the necessity
of turning the whole attention to the means of subsistence ; but
England's gayest customs prevailed at times when her common
people enjoyed comparatively few of the comforts and conveni-
ences that they do at present. It may be still more attributed
to the universal spirit of gain, and the calculating habits that
commerce has introduced; but I am inclined to attribute it
chiefly to the gradual increase of the liberty of the subject, and
the growing freedom and activity of opinion.

A free people are apt to be grave and thoughtful. They have
high and important matters to occupy their minds. They feel
that it is their right, their interest, and their duty, to mingle in
public concerns, and to watch over the general welfare. The
continual exercise of the mind on political topics gives intenser
habits of thinking, and a more serious and earnest demeanour.
A nation becomes less gay, but more intellectually active and
vigorous. It evinces less play of the fancy, but more power of
the imagination ; less taste and elegance, but more grandeur of
mind ; less animated vivacity, but deeper enthusiasm.

It is when men are shut out of the regions of manly thought,
by a despotic government ; when every grave and lofty theme
is rendered perilous to discussion and almost to reflection ; it ia
then that they turn to the safer occupations of taste and amuse-
ment; trifles rise to importance, and occupy the craving ac-
tivity of intellect. No being is more void of care and reflection
than the slave; none dances more gayly, in his intervals of

176 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

labour; but make him free, give him rights and interests to
guard, and he becomes thoughtful and laborious.

The French are a gayer people than the English. Why?
Partly from temperament, perhaps ; but greatly because they
have been accustomed to governments which surrounded tb,e,
free exercise of thought with danger, and where he only woS
safe who shut his eyes and ears to public events, and enjoyed
the passing pleasure of the day. Within late years, they have
had more opportunity of exercising their minds; and within
late years, the national character has essentially changed.
Never did the French enjoy such a degree of freedom as they
do at this moment ; and at this moment the French are com-
paratively a grave people.

GIPSIES.

What's that to absolute freedom; such as the very beggars have; to feast and
revel here to-day, and yonder to-morrow; next day where they please; and so on
still, the whole country or kingdom over? There's liberty: the birds of the air can
take no more. — Jovial Crete.

SINCE the meeting with the gipsies, which I have related in
a former paper, I have observed several of them haunting the
purlieus of the Hall, in spite of a positive interdiction of the
Squire. They are part of a gang that has long kept about this
neighbourhood, to the great annoyance of the farmers, whose
poultry-yards often suffer from their nocturnal invasions.
They are, however, in some measure patronized by the Squire,
who considers the race as belonging to the good old times;
which, to confess the private truth, seem to have abounded
with good-for-nothing characters.

This roving crew is called "Starlight Tom's Gang," from the
name of its chieftain, a notorious poacher. I have heard re-
peatedly of the misdeeds of this "minion of the moon;" for
every midnight depredation that takes place in park, or fold,
or farm-yard, is laid to his charge. Starlight Tom, in fact,
answers to his name ; he seems to walk in darkness, and, like a
fox, to be traced in the morning by the mischief he has done.
He reminds me of that fearful personage in the nursery rhyme:

Who goes round the house at night?

None but bloody Tom :
Who steals all the sheep at night?

None but one by one !

177

[n shdrt, Starlight Tom is the scapegoat of the neighbourhood,
but so cunning and adroit, that there is no detecting him. Old
Christy and the game-keeper have watched many a night, in
hopes of entrapping him ; and Christy often patrols the park
with his dogs, for the purpose, but all in vain. It is said that
the Squire winks hard at his misdeeds, having an indulgent
feeling towards the vagabond, because of his being very expert
xt all kinds of games, a great shot with the cross-bow, and the
best morris-dancer in the country.

The Squire also suffers the gang to lurk unmolested about
the skirts of his estate, on condition that they do not come
about the house. The approaching wedding, however, has
made a kind of Saturnalia at the Hall, and has caused a sus-
pension of all sober rule. It has produced a great sensation
throughout the female part of the household ; not a housemaid
but dreams of wedding favours, and has a husband running in
tier head. Such a time is a harvest for the gipsies : there is a
public footpath leading across one part of the park, by which
they have free ingress, and they are continually hovering
about the grounds, telling the servant-girls' fortunes, or getting
smuggled in to the young ladies.

I believe the Oxonian amuses himself very much by furnish-
ing them with hints in private, and bewildering all the weak
brains in the house with their wonderful revelations. The
general certainly was very much astonished by the communi-
cations made to him the other evening by the gipsy girl : he
kept a wary silence towards us on the subject, and affected to
treat it lightly ; but I have noticed that he has since redoubled
his attentions to Lady Lillycraft and her dogs.

I have seen also Phoebe Wilkins, the housekeeper's pretty
md love-sick niece, holding a long conference with one of these
j\d sibyls behind a large tree in the avenue, and often looking
round to see that she was not observed. I make no doubt that
^he was endeavouring to get some favourable augury about the
result of her love-quarrel with young Eeady-Money, as oracles
have always been more consulted on love affairs than upon
any thing else. I fear, however, that in this instance the re-
sponse was not so favourable as usual ; for I perceived poor
Phoebe returning pensively towards the house, her head hang-
ing down, her hat in her hand, and the riband trailing along
the ground.

At another time, as I turned a corner of a terrace, at the
bottom of the garden, just by a clump of trees, and a large

178 BEACEBRIDOE HALL.

stone urn, I came upon a bevy of the young girls of the family,
attended by this same Phoebe Wilkins. I was at a loss to
comprehend the meaning of their blushing and giggling, and
their apparent agitation, until I saw the red cloak of a gipsy
vanishing among the shrubbery. A few moments after, I
caught sight of Master Simon and the Oxonion stealing along
ono of the walks of the garden, chuckling and laughing at their
successful waggery ; having evidently put the gipsy up to the
thing, and instructed her what to say.

After all, there is something strangely pleasing in these tam-
perings with the future, even where we are convinced of the
fallacy of the prediction. It is singular how willingly the
mind will half deceive itself, and with what a degree of awe
we will listen to these babblers about futurity. For my part,
I cannot feel angry with these poor vagabonds, that seek to
deceive us into bright hopes and expectations. I have always
been something of a castle-builder, and have found my liveliest
pleasures to arise from the illusions which fancy has cast over
commonplace realities. As I get on in life, I find it more diffi-
cult to deceive myself in this delightful manner ; and I should
be thankful to any prophet, however false, that would conjure
the clouds which hang over futurity into palaces, and all its
doubtful regions into fairy-land.

The Squire, who, as I have observed, has a private good-will
towards gipsies, has suffered considerable annoyance on their
account. Not that they requite his indulgence with ingrati-
tude, for they do not depredate very flagrantly on his estate ;
but because their pilferings and misdeeds occasion loud mur-
murs in the village. I can readily understand the old gentle-
man's humour on this point ; I have a great toleration for all
kinds of vagrant sunshiny existence, and must confess I take a
pleasure in observing the ways of gipsies. The English, who
are accustomed to them from childhood, and often suffer from
their petty depredations, consider them as mere nuisances;
but I have been very much struck with their peculiarities. I
like to behold their clear olive complexions, their romantic
black eyes, their raven locks, their lithe, slender figures ; and
hear them in low silver tones dealing forth magnificent prom-
ises of honours and estates, of world's wealth, and ladies' love.

Their mode of life, too, has something in it very fanciful and
picturesque. They are the free denizens of nature, and main-
tain a primitive independence, in spite of law and gospel ; of
county gaols and country magistrates. It is curious to see this

GIPSIES. 179

Obstinate adherence to the wild, unsettled habits of savage life
transmitted from generation to generation, and preserved in
the midst of one of the most cultivated, populous, and sys-
tematic countries in the world. They are totally distinct from,
the busy, thrifty people about them. They seem to be, like
the Indians of America, either above or below the ordinary
cares and anxieties of mankind. Heedless of power, of honours,
of wealth ; and indifferent to the fluctuations of times ; the rise
or fall of grain, or stock, or empires, they seem to laugh at the
toiling, fretting world around them, and to live according to
the philosophy of the old song:

" Who would ambition shun,
And loves to lie i' the sun,
Seeking the food he eats,
And pleased with what he gets,
Come hither, come hither, come hither;

Here shall he see

No enemy,
But winter and rough weather."

In this way, they wander from county to county; keeping
about the purlieus of villages, or in plenteous neighbourhoods,
where there are fat farms and rich country-seats. Their en-
campments are generally made in some beautiful spot — either
a green shady nook of a road ; or on the border of a common,
under a sheltering hedge ; or on the skirts of a fine spreading
wood. They are always to be found lurking about fairs, and
races, and rustic gatherings, wherever there is pleasure, and
throng, and idleness. They are the oracles of milk-maids and
simple serving-girls ; and sometimes have even the honour of
perusing the white hands of gentlemen's daughters, when
rambling about their fathers' grounds. They are the bane of
good housewives and thrifty farmers, and odious in the eyes
of country justices ; but, like all other vagabond beings, they
have something to commend them to the fancy. They are
among the last traces, in these matter-of-fact days, of the
motley population of former times ; and are whimsically asso-
ciated in my mind with fairies and witches, Robin Goodfellow,
Robin Hood, and the other fantastical personages of poetry.

180 BRACEBRIDQE HALL

MAY-DAY CUSTOMS.

Happy the age, and harmless were the dayes,

(For then true love and amity was found,)
When every village did a May-pole raise,

And Whir -mi ales and May -games did abound:
And all the lusty yonkers in a rout,
With merry lasses daunc'd the rod about,
Then friendship to their banquets bid the guest*,
And poore men far'd the better for their feasts.

— PASQUIL'S Palinodia.

THE month of April has nearly passed away, and we are fast
approaching that poetical day, which was considered, in old
times, as the boundary that parted the frontiers of winter and
summer. With all its caprices, however, I like the mouth of
April. I like these laughing and crying days, when sun and
shade seem to run in billows over the landscape. I like to see
the sudden shower coursing over the meadow, and giving all
nature a greener smile ; and the bright sunbeams chasing the
flying cloud, and turning all its drops into diamonds.

I was enjoying a morning of the kind, in company with the
Squire, in one of the finest parts of the park. We were skirt-
ing a beautiful grove, and he was giving me a kind of bio-
graphical account of several of his favourite forest trees, when
he heard the strokes of an axe from the midst of a thick copse.
The Squire paused and listened, with manifest signs of uneasi-
ness. He turned his steps in the direction of the sound. The
strokes grew louder and louder as we advanced ; there was
evidently a vigorous arm wielding the axe. The Squire quick-
ened his pace, but in vain ; a loud crack, and a succeeding
crash, told that the mischief had been done, and some child of
the forest laid low. When we came to the place, we found
Master Simon and several others standing about a tall and
beautifully straight young tree, which had just been felled.

The Squire, though a man of most harmonious dispositions,
was completely put out of tune by this circumstance. He felt
like a monarch witnessing the murder of one of his liege sub-
jects, and demanded, with some asperity, the meaning of the
outrage. It turned out to be an affair of Master Simon's, who
had selected the tree, from its height and straightness, for a
May-pole, the old one which stood on the village green being un-
fit for farther service. If any tiling could have soothed the ire
of niy worthy host, it would have been the reflection that his

MAT-DAT CUSTOMS. 181

tree hai fallen in so good a cause ; and I saw that there was a
great struggle between his fondness for his groves, and his
devotion to May-day. He could not contemplate the prostrate
tree, however, without indulging in lamentation, and making
a kind of funeral eulogy, like Mark Antony over the body of
Caesar ; and he forbade that any tree should thenceforward be
cut down on his estate, without a warrant from himself ; being
determined, he said, to hold the sovereign power of life and
death in his own hands.

This mention of the May-pole struck my attention, and I in-
quired whether the old customs connected with it were really
kept up in this part of the country. The Squire shook his
head mournfully ; and I found I had touched on one of his
tender points, for he grew quite melancholy in bewailing the
total decline of old May-day. Though it is regularly celebrated
in the neighbouring village, yet it has been merely resuscitated
by the worthy Squire, and is kept up in a forced state of exist-
ence at his expense. He meets with continual discourage-
ments ; and finds great difficulty in getting the country bump-
kins to play their parts tolerably. He manages to have every
year a " Queen of the May ; " but as to Robin Hood, Friar Tuck,
the Dragon, the Hobby-Horse, and all the other motley crew
that used to enliven the day with their mummery, he has not
ventui'ed to introduce them.

Still I looked forward with some interest to the promised
shadow of old May-day, even though it be but a shadow ; and
I feel more and more pleased with the whimsical yet harmless
hobby of my host, which is surrounding him with agreeable
associations, and making a little world of poetry about him.
Brought up, as I have been, in a new country, I may appre-
ciate too highly the faint vestiges of ancient customs which I
now and then meet with, and the interest I express in them
may provoke a smile from those who are negligently suffering
them to pass away. But with whatever indifference they may
be regarded by those " to the manner born," yet in my mind
the lingering flavour of them imparts a charm to rustic life,
which nothing else could readily supply.

I shall never forget the delight I felt on first seeing a May-
pole. It was on the banks of the Dee, close by the picturesque
old bridge that stretches across the river from the quaint little
city of Chester. I had already been carried back into former
days, by the antiquities of that venerable place ; the examina-
tion of which is equal to turning over the pages of a black-let-

182 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

ter volume, or gazing on the pictures in Froissart. The May-
pole on the margin of that poetic stream completed the illusion.
My fancy adorned it with wreaths of flowers, and peopled the
green bank with all the dancing revelry of May -day. The
mere sight of this May -pole gave a glow to my feelings, and
spread a charm over the country for the rest of the day ; and
as I traversed a part of the fair plain of Cheshire, and the
beautiful borders of Wales, and looked from among swelling
hills down a long green valley, through which "the Deva
wound its wizard stream," my imagination turned all into a
perfect Arcadia.

Whether it be owing to such poetical associations early in-
stilled into my mind, or whether there is, as it were, a sym-
pathetic revival and budding forth of the feelings at this sea-
son, certain it is, that I always experience, wherever I may be
placed, a delightful expansion of the heart at the return of
May. It is said that birds about this time will become restless
in their cages, as if instinct with the season, conscious of the
revelry that is going on in the groves, and impatient to break
from their bondage, and join in the jubilee of the year. In
like manner I have felt myself excited, even in the midst of
the metropolis, when the windows, which had been churlislily
closed all winter, were again thrown open to receive the balmy
breath of May ; when the sweets of the country were breathed
into the town, and flowers were cried about the streets. I have
considered the treasures of flowers thus poured in, as so many
missives from nature, inviting us forth to enjoy the virgin
beauty of the year, before its freshness is exhaled by the heats
of sunny summer.

One can readily imagine what a gay scene it must have been
in jolly old London, when the doors were decorated with
flowering branches, when every hat was decked with haw-
thorn, and Robin Hood, Friar Tuck, Maid Marian, the morris-
dancers, and all the other fantastic masks and revellers, were
performing their antics about the May-pole in every part of
the city.

I am not a bigoted admirer of old times and old customs,
merely because of their antiquity: but while I rejoice in the
decline of many of the rude usages and coarse amusements of
former days, I cannot but regret that this innocent and fanci-
ful festival has fallen into disuse. It seemed appropriate to
this verdant and pastoral country, and calculated to light up
the too-pervading gravity of the nation. I value every cus-

VILLAGE WORTHIES.

torn that tends to infuse poetical feeling into the common peo-
ple, and to sweeten and soften the rudeness of rustic manners,
without destroying their simplicity. Indeed, it is to the decline
of this happy simplicity, that the decline of this custom may
be traced ; and the rural dance on the green, and the homely
May-day pageant, have gradually disappeared, in proportion as
the peasantry have become expensive and artificial in their
pleasures, and too knowing for simple enjoyment

Some attempts, the Squire informs me, have been made of
late years, by men of both taste and learning, to rally back the
popular feeling to these standards of primitive simplicity ; but
the tune has gone by, the feeling has become chilled by habits
of gain and traffic, the country apes the manners taid amuse-
ments of the town, and little is heard of May-day at present,
except from the lamentations of authors, who sigh axter it from
among the brick walls of the city :

" For O, for O, the Hobby-Horse is forgot."

VILLAGE WORTHIES.

Nay, I tell you, I am so well beloved in our town, that not the worst dog in the
street will hurt my little finger.— Collier of Croydon.

As the neighbouring village is one of those out-of-the-way,
but gossiping, little places where a small matter makes a great
stir, it is not to be supposed that the approach of a festival like
that of May-day can be regarded with indifference, especially
since it is made a matter of such moment by the great folks at
the Hall. Master Simon, who is the faithful factotum of the
worthy Squire, and jumps with his humour in every thing, is
frequent just now in his visits to the village, to give directions
for the impending fete ; and as I have taken the liberty occa-
sionally of accompanying him, I have been enabled to get some
insight into the characters and internal politics of this very
sagacious little community.

Master Simon is in fact the Csesar of the village. It is true
the Squire is the protecting power, but his factotum is the
active and busy agent. He intermeddles in all its concerns, is
acquainted with all the inhabitants and their domestic history,
gives counsel to the old folks in their business matters, and the

184 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

young folks in their love affairs, and enjoys the proud satis-
faction of being a great man in a little world.

He is the dispenser, too, of the Squire's charity, which is
bounteous; and, to do Master Simon justice, he performs this
part of his functions with great alacrity. Indeed, I have been
entertained with the mixture of bustle, importance, and kind-
heartedness which he displays. He is of too vivacious a tem-
perament to comfort the afflicted by sitting down, moping and
whining, and blowing noses in concert; but goes whisking
about like a sparrow, chirping consolation into every hole and
corner of the village. I have seen an old woman, in a red cloak,
hold him for half an hour together with some long phthisical
tale of distress, which Master Simon listened to with many a
bob of the head, smack of his dog- whip, and other symptoms of
impatience, though he afterwards made a most faithful and
circumstantial report of the case to the Squire. I have watched
him, too, during one of his pop visits into the cottage of a
superannuated villager, who is a pensioner of the Squire, where
he fidgeted about the room without sitting down, made many
excellent off-hand reflections with the old invalid, who was
propped up in his chair, about the shortness of life, the cer-
tainty of death, ami the necessity of preparing for "that awful
change ;" quoted several texts of scripture very incorrectly, but
much to the edification of the cottager's wife ; and on coming
out, pinched the daughter's rosy cheek, and wondered what
was in the young men that such a pretty face did not get a
husband.

He has also his cabinet counsellors in the villa 2-0, with whom
he is very busy just now, preparing for the May -day ceremonies.
Among these is the village tailor, a pale-faced fellow, that plays
the clarionet in the church choir ; and, being a great musical
genius, has frequent meetings of the band at his house, where
they " make night hideous" by their concerts. He is, in conse-
quence, high in favour with Master Simon ; and, through his
influence, has the making, or rather marring, of all the liveries
of the Hall; which generally look as though they had been cut
out by one of those scientific tailors of the Flying Island of
Laputa, who took measure of their customers with a quadrant.
The tailor, in fact, might rise to be one of the moneyed men of
the village, were he not rather too prone to gossip, and keep
holidays, and give concerts, and blow all his substance, real
and personal, through his clarionet ; which literally keeps him
poor, both in body and estate. He has for the present thrown

THE SCHOOLMASTER. 185

by all his regular work, and suffered the breeches of the village
to go unmade and unmended, while he is occupied in making
garlands of party-coloured rags, in imitation of flowers, for the
decoration of the May -pole.

Another of Master Simon's counsellors is the apothecary, a
short and rather fat man, with a pair of prominent eyes, that
diverge like those of a lobster. He is the village wise man;
very sententious, and full of profound remarks on shallow
subjects. Master Simon often quotes his sayings, and mentions
him as rather an extraordinary man ; and even consults him
occasionally, in desperate cases of the dogs and horses. Indeed,
he seems to have been overwhelmed by the apothecary's philo-
sophy, which is exactly one observation deep, consisting of
indisputable maxims, such as may be gathered from the mottoes
of tobacco-boxes. I had a specimen of his philosophy, in my
very first conversation with him ; in the course of which he
observed, with great solemnity and emphasis, that ' ' man is a
compound of wisdom and folly ;" upon which Master Simon,
who had hold of my arm, pressed very hard upon it, and
whispered in my ear " That's a devilish shrewd remark !"

THE SCHOOLMASTER

There vdll be no mosse stick to the stone of Sisiphus, no grasse hang on the heeles
of Mercury, no butter cleave on the bread of a traveller. For as the eagle at every
flight loseth a feather, which maketh her baulcl in her age, so the traveller in every
country loseth some fleece, which maketh him a beggar in his youth, by buying
that for a pound which he cannot sell again for a penny— repentance.— LILLY'S
Euphues.

AMONG the worthies of the village that enjoy the peculiar,
confidence of Master Simon, is one who has struck my fancy [
so much that I have thought him worthy of a separate notice.
It is Slingsby, the schoolmaster, a thin, elderly man, rather
threadbare and slovenly, somewhat indolent in manner, and
with an easy, good-humoured look, not often met with in his
craft. I have been interested in his favour by a few anecdotes
which I have picked up concerning him.

He is a native of the village, and was a contemporary and
playmate of Ready-Money Jack in the days of their boyhood.
Indeed, they carried on a kind of league of mutual good
offices. Slingsby was rather puny, and withal somewhat of 9

186 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

coward, but very apt at his learning; Jack, on the contrary,
was a bully-boy out of doors, but a sad laggard at his books.
Slingsby helped Jack, therefore, to all his lessons ; Jack fought
all Slingsby 's battles ; and they were inseparable friends. This
mutual kindness continued even after they left the school,
notwithstanding the dissimilarity of their characters. Jack
took to ploughing and reaping, and prepared himself to till his
paternal acres ; while the other loitered negligently on in the
path of learning, until he penetrated even into the confines of
Latin and mathematics.

In an unlucky hour, however, he took to reading voyages
and travels, and was smitten with a desire to see the world.
This desire increased upon him as he grew up ; so, early one
bright, sunny morning, he put all his effects in a knapsack,
slung it on his back, took staff in hand, and called in his way to
take leave of his early schoolmate. Jack was just going out
with the plough : the friends shook hands over the farm-house
gate; Jack drove his team a-field, and Slingsby whistled,
" Over the hills and far away," and sallied forth gayly to ;' seek
his fortune."

Years and years passed by, and young Tom Slingsby was
forgotten ; when, one mellow Sunday af teraoon in autumn, a
thin man, somewhat advanced in life, with a coat out at elbows,
a pair of old nankeen gaiters, and a few things tied in a hand-
kerchief and slung on the end of a stick, was seen loitering
through the village. He appeared to regard several houses
attentively, to peer into the windows that were open, to eye
the villagers wistfully as they returned from church, and then
to pass some time in the church-yard reading the tombstones.

At length he found his way to the farm-house of Ready-
Money Jack, but paused ere he attempted the wicket ; contem-
plating the picture of substantial independence before him. In
the porch of the house sat Ready-Money Jack, in his Sunday
dress ; with his hat upon his head, his pipe in his mouth, and
his tankard before him, the monarch of all he surveyed.
Beside him lay his fat house-dog. The varied sounds of poul-
try were heard from the well-stocked farm-yard; the bees
hummed from their hives in the garden ; the cattled lowed in
the rich meadow ; while the crammed barns and ample stacks
bore proof of an abundant harvest.

The stranger opened the gate and advanced dubiously toward
the house. The mastiff growled at the sight of the suspicious-
looking intruder ; but was immediately silenced by his master,

THE SCHOOLMASTER. 187

who, taking his pipe from his mouth, awaited with inquiring
aspect the address of this equivocal personage. The stranger
eyed old Jack for a moment, so portly in his dimensions, and
decked out in gorgeous apparel; then cast a glance upon his
own thread-bare and starveling condition, and the scanty
bundle which he held in his hand; then giving his shrunk
waistcoat a twitch to make it meet its receding waistband,*
and casting another look, hah0 sad, half humorous, at the sturdy
peoman, " I suppose," said he, "Mr. Tibbets, you have forgot
old times and old playmates."

The latter gazed at him with scrutinizing look, but acknowl-
edged that he had no recollection of him.

"Like enough, like enough," said the stranger, "every body
seems to have forgotten poor Slingsby !"

" Why, no, sure! it can't be Tom Slingsby?"

"Yes, but it is, though!" replied the stranger, shaking his
head.

Eeady-Money Jack was on his feet in a twinkling, thrust out
his hand, gave his ancient crony the gripe of a giant, and
slapping the other hand on a bench, "Sit down there,'' cried he,
"Tom Slingsby!"

A long conversation ensued about old times, while Slingsby
was regaled with the best cheer that the farm-house afforded ;
for he was hungry as well as wayworn, and had the keen
appetite of a poor pedestrian. The early playmates then
talked over their subsequent lives and adventures. Jack
had but little to relate, and was never good at a long story.
A prosperous life, passed at home, has little incident for narra-
tive ; it is only poor devils, that are tossed about the world,
that are the true heroes of story. Jack had stuck by tlie
paternal farm, followed the same plough that his forefathers
had driven, and had waxed richer and richer as he grew older.
As to Tom Slingsby, he was an exemplification of the old
proverb, "a rolling stone gathers no moss." He had sought
his fortune about the world, without ever finding it, being a
thing oftener found at home than abroad. He had been in all
kinds of situations, and had learned a dozen different modes
of making a living; but had found his way back to his native
village rather poorer than when he left it, his knapsack having
dwindled down to a scanty bundle.

As luck would have it, the Squire was passing by the farm-
house that very evening, and called there, as is often hie
custom. He found the two schoolmates still gossiping in the

188 BRACEBR1DGE UALL.

porch, and according to the good old Scottish song, "taking a
cup of kindness yet, for auld lang syne." The Squire was
struck by the contrast in appearance and fortunes of these
early playmates. Ready-Money Jack, seated in lordly state,
surrounded by the good things of this life, with golden guineas
hanging to his very watch-chain, and the poor pilgrim
Slingsby, thin as a weasel, with all his worldly effects, his
bundle, hat, and walking-staff, lying on the ground beside
him.

The good Squire's heart warmed towards the luckless cosmo-
polite, for he is a little prone to like such half -vagrant charac-
ters. He cast about in his mind how he should contrive once
more to anchor Slingsby in his native village. Honest Jack
had already offered him a present shelter under his roof,
in spite of the hints, and winks, and half remonstraixvs
of the shrewd Dame Tibbets; but how to provide for his
permanent maintenance, was the question. Luckily the Squire
bethought himself that the village school was without a
teacher. A little further conversation convinced him that
Slingsby was as fit for that as for any thing else, and in a day
or two he was seen swaying the rod of empire in the very
school-house where he had often been horsed in the days of his
boyhood.

Here he has remained for several years, and, being honoured
by the countenance of the Squire, and the fast friendship of
Mr. Tibbets, he has grown into much importance and conside-
ration in the village. I am told, however, that he still shows,
now and then, a degree of restlessness, and a disposition to
rove abroad again, and see a little more of the world ; an incli-
nation which seems particularly to haunt him about spring-
time. There is nothing so difficult to conquer as the vagrant
humour, when once it has been fully indulged.

Since I have heard these anecdotes of poor Slingsby, I have
more than once mused upon the picture presented by him and
his schoolmate, Ready-Money Jack, on their coming together
again after so long a separation. It is difficult to determine
between lots in life, where each one is attended with its peculiar
discontents. He who never leaves his home repines at his
monotonous existence, and envies the traveller, whose life is a
constant tissue of wonder and adventure; while he who is
tossed about the world, looks back with many a sigh to the
safe and quiet shore which he has abandoned. I cannot help
thinking, however, that the man that stays at home, and cul-

THE SCHOOL. 189

tivates the comforts and pleasures daily springing up around
him, stands the best chance for happiness. There is nothing so
fascinating to a young mind as the idea of travelling ; and there
is very witchcraft in the old phrase found in every nursery
tale, of "going to seek one's fortune." A continual change of
place, and change of object, promises a continual succession of
adventure and gratification of curiosity. But there is a limit
to all our enjoyments, and every desire bears its death in its very,
gratification. Curiosity languishes under repeated stimulants,
novelties cease to excite surprise, until at length we cannot
wonder even at a miracle.

He who has sallied forth into the world, like poor Slingsby,
full of sunny anticipations, finds too soon how different the dis-
tant scene becomes when visited. The smooth place roughens
as he approaches ; the wild place becomes tame and barren ; the
fairy tints that beguiled him on, still fly to the distant bill, or
gather upon the land he has left behind ; and every part of the
landscape seems greener than the spot he stands on.

THE SCHOOL.

But to come down from great men and higher matters to my little children and
poor school-house again; I will, God willing, go forward orderly, as I purposed, to
instruct children and young men both for learning and manners. — ROGER ASCHAM.

HAVING given the reader a slight sketch of the village school-
master, he may be curious to learn something concerning his
school. As the Squire takes much interest in the education of
the neighbouring children, he put into the hands of the teacher,
on first installing him in office, a copy of Roger Ascham's
Schoolmaster, and advised him, moreover, to con over that
portion of old Peacham which treats of the duty of masters,
and which condemns the favourite method of making boys wise
by flagellation.

He exhorted Slingsby not to break down or depress the free
spirit of the boys, by harshness and slavish fear, but to lead
them freely and joyously on in the path of knowledge, making
it pleasant and desirable in their eyes. He wished to see the
youth trained up in the manners and habitudes of the peasantry
of the good old times, and thus to lay a foundation for the
accomplishment of his favorite object, the revival of old English

190 BRAcmmvnp. HALL.

customs and character. He recommended that all the ancient
holidays should be observed, and that the sports of the boys, in
their hours of play, should be regulated according to the
standard authorities laid down in Strutt, a copy of whose
invaluable work, decorated with plates, was deposited in the
school-house. Above all, he exhorted the pedagogue to abstain
from the use of birch, an instrument of instruction which the
good Squire regards with abhorrence, as fit only for the coer-
cion of brute natures that cannot be reasoned with.

Mr. Slingsby has followed the Squire's instructions, to the
best of his disposition and abilities. He never flogs the boys,
because he is too eisy, good-humoured a creature to inflict p-iiu
on a worm. He is bountiful in holidays, because he loves holi-
days himself, and has a sympathy with the urchins' impatience ol
confinement, from having divers times experienced its irksome-
ness during the time that ho was seeing the world. As to
sports and pastimes, the boys are f aitlif ully exercised in all that
are on record, quoits, races, prison-bars, tipcat, trap-ball, bandy-
ball, wrestling, leaping, and what not. The only misfortune
is, that having banished the birch, honest Slingsby has not
studied Roger Ascham sufficiently to find out a substitute ; or
rather, he has not the management in his nature to apply one ;
his school, therefore, though one of the happiest, is one of the
most unruly in the country ; and never was a pedagogue more
liked, or less heeded by his disciples, than Slingsby.

He has lately taken a coadjutor worthy of himself, being
another stray sheep that has returned to the village fold.
This is no other than the son of the musical tailor, who had
bestowed some cost upon his education, hoping to see him one
day arrive at the dignity of an exciseman, or at least of a parish
clerk. The lad grew up, however, as idle and musical as lus
father ; and, being captivated by the drum and fife of a recruit-
ing party, he followed them off to the army. He returned
not long since, out of money, and out at the elbows, the
prodigal son of the village. He remained for some time loung-
ing about the place in half-tattered soldier's dress, with a
foraging-cap on one side of his head, jerking stones across the
brook, or loitering about the tavern-door, a burthen to his
father, ar.d regarded with great coldness by all warm house-
holders.

Something, however, drew honest Slingsby towards the
youth. It might be the kindness he bore to his father, who is
one of the schoolmaster's great cronies; it might be that secret

THE SCHOOL. 191

sympathy which draws insn 01 vagrant propensities towards
each other; for there is 3ornething truly magnetic in the
vagabond feeling ; or it might be, that he remembered the time
when he himself had come back, like this youngster, a wreck,
to his native place At any rate, whatever the motive, Slingsby
drew towards the youth. They had many conversations in the
village tap-room about foreign parts and the various scenes and
places they had witnessed during their wayfaring about the
world. Tbo more Slingsby talked with him, the more he found
him to his taste ; and finding him almost as learned as himself,
he forthwith engaged him as an assistant, or usher, in the
school. Under such admirable tuition, the school, as may be
supposed, flourishes apace ; and if the scholars do not become
versed in all the holiday accomplishments of the good old times,
to the Squire's heart's content, it will not be the fault of their
teachers. The prodigal son has become almost as popular
among the boys as the pedagogue himself. His instructions are
not limited to school hours ; and having inherited the musical
taste and talents of his father, he has bitten the whole school
with the mania. He is a great hand at beating a drum, which
is often heard rumbling from the rear of the school-house. He
is teaching half the boys of the village, also, to play the fife,
and the pandean pipes ; and they weary the whole neighbour-
hood with their vague pipings, as they sit perched on stiles, or
loitering about the barn-doors in the evenings. Among the
other exercises of the school, also, he has introduced the ancient
art of archery, one of the Squire's favourite themes, with such
success, that the whipsters roam in truant bands about the
neighbourhood, practising with their bows and arrows upon the
birds of the air, and the beasts of the field ; and not unf requently
making a foray into the Squire's domains, to the great indigna
tion of the gamekeepers. In a word, so completely are tho
ancient English customs and habits cultivated at this school,
that I should not be surprised if the Squire should live to see
one of his poetic visions realized, and a brood reared up,
worthy successors to Eobin Hood and his merry gang of out-'
laws.

192 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

A VILLAGE POLITICIAN.

I am a rogue if I do not think I was designed for the helm of state; I am so full ot
nimble stratagems, that I should have ordered affairs, and carried it against the
stream of a faction, with as much ease as a skipper would laver against the wind.

— The Goblins.

IN one of my visits to the village with Master Simon, he pro-
posed that we should stop at the inn, which he wished to show
me, as a specimen of ,a real country inn, the head-quarters of
village gossips. I had remarked it before, in my perambu-
lations about the place. It has a deep, old-fashioned porch,
leading into a large hall, which serves for tap-room and travel-
lers'-room ; having a wide fire-place, with high-backed settles on
each side, where the wise men of the village gossip over their
ale, and hold their sessions during the long winter evenings.
The landlord is an easy, indolent fellow, shaped a little like one
of his own beer-barrels, and is apt to stand gossiping at his
door, with his wig on one side, and his hands in his pockets,
whilst his wife and daughter attend to customers. His wife,
however, is fully competent to manage the establishment ; and,
indeed, from long habitude, rules over all the frequenters of
the tap-room as completely as if they were her dependants in-
stead of her patrons. Not a veteran ale-bibber but pays homage
to her, having, no doubt, been often in her arrears. I have
already hinted that she is on very good terms with Ready-
Money Jack. He was a sweetheart of hers in early life, and
has always countenanced the tavern on her account. Indeed,
he is quite the "cock of the walk" at the tap-room.

As we approached the inn, we heard some one talking with
great volubility, and distinguished the ominous words, "taxes,"
"poor's rates," and "agricultural distress." It proved to be a
thin, loquacious fellow, who had penned the landlord up in one
corner of the porch, with his hands in his pockets as ueuaL
listening with an air of the most vacant acquiescence.

The sight seemed to have a curious effect on Master Simon, as
he squeezed my arm, and, altering his course, sheered wide of
the porch, as though he had not had any idea of entering. This
evident evasion induced me to notice the orator more particu-
larly. He was meagre, but active in his make, with a long,
pale, bilious face ; a black beard, so ill-shaven as to bloody his
shirt-collar, a feverish eye, and a hat sharpened up at the sides,
into a most pragmatical shape. He had a newspaper in his

A VILLAGE POLITICIAN. 193

hand, and seemed to be commenting on its contents, to tke
thorough conviction of mine host.

At sight of Master Simon, the landlord was evidently a little
flurried, and began to rub his hands, edge away from his cor-
ner, and make several profound publican bows; while the
orator took no other notice of my companion than to talk
rather louder than before, and with, as I thought, something of
an air of defiance. Master Simon, however, as I have before
said, sheered off from the porch, and passed on, pressing my
arm within his, and whispering, as we got by, in a tone of awe
and horror, " That's a radical! he reads Cobbett!"

I endeavoured to get a more particular account of him from
my companion, but he seemed unwilling even to talk about
him, answering only in general terms, that he was "a cursed
busy fellow, that had a confounded trick of talking, and was
apt to bother one about the national debt, and such nonsense ;"
from which I suspected that Master Simon had been rendered
wary of him by some accidental encounter on the field of argu-
ment ; for these radicals are continually roving about in quest
of wordy warfare, and never so happy as when they can tilt a
gentleman logician out of his saddle.

On subsequent inquiry, my suspicions have been confirmed.
I find the radical has but recently found his way into the village,
where he threatens to commit fearful devastations with his
doctrines. He has already made two or three complete con-
verts, or new lights; has shaken the faith of several others;
and has grievously puzzled the brains of many of the oldest
villagers, who had never thought about politics, or scarce any
thing else, during their whole lives.

He is lean and meagre from the constant restlessness of mind
and body ; worrying about with newspapers and pamphlets in
his pockets, which he is ready to pull out on all occasions. He
has shocked several of the staunchest villagers, by talking
lightly of the Squire and his family ; and hinting that it would
be better the park should be cut into small farms and kitchen-
gardens, or feed good mutton instead of worthless deer.

He is a great thorn in the side of the Squire, who is sadly
afraid that he will introduce politics into the village, and turn
it into an unhappy, thinking community. He is a still greater
grievance to Master Simon, who has hitherto been able to sway
the political opinions of the place, without much cost of learn-
ing or logic ; but has been much puzzled of late to weed out the
doubts and heresies already sown by this champion of reform,

194 BRACESEIDGE HALL.

Indeed, the Latter has taken complete command at the tap-room
of the tavern, not so much because he has convinced, as be-
cause he has out-talked all the old-established oracles. The
apothecary, with all his philosophy, was as nought before him.
He has convinced and converted the landlord at least a dozen
times; who, however, is liable to be convinced and convert id
the other way, by the next person with whom he talks. 1 ; ;
true the radical has a violent antagonist in the landlady, who is
vehemently loyal, and thoroughly devoted to the king, v
Simon, and the Squire. She now and then comes out upon the
reformer with all the fierceness of a cat-o'-mountain, and «! ee
not spare her own soft-headed husband, for listening to what
she terms such "low-lived politics." What makes the px;cl
woman the more violent, is the perfect coolness with which the
radical listens to her attacks, drawing his face up into a pro-
voking supercilious smile ; and when she has talked herself out
of breath, quietly asking her for a taste of her home-brewed.

The only person that is in any way a match for this redoubt-
able politician, is Ready-Money Jack Tibbets, who maintains
his stand in the tap-room, in defiance of the radical and all his
works. Jack is one of the most loyal men in the country,
without being able to reason about the matter. He has that
admirable quality for a tough arguer, also, that he never knows
when he is beat. He has half-a-dozen old maxims which he ad-
vances on all occasions, and though his antagonist may overt urn
them never so often, yet he always brings them anew to the
field. He is like the robber in Ariosto, who, though his head
might be cut off half-a-hundred times, yet whipped it on his
shoulders again in a twinkling, and returned as sound a man
as ever to the charge.

Whatever does not square with Jack's simple and obvious
)creed, he sets down for "French politics;" for, notwithstand-
ing the peace, he cannot be persuaded that the French are not
still laying plots to ruin the nation, and to get hold of the Bank
of England. The radical attempted to overwhelm him, one
day, by a long passage from a newspaper; but Jack neither
reads nor believes in newspapers. In reply, he gave him one
of the stanzas which he has by heart from his favourite, and
indeed only author, old Tusser, and which he calls his Golden
Rules:

Leave princes' affairs undescanted on,
And tend to such doings as stand thee upon;
Fear God, and offend not the king nor his laws,
Aid keep thyself out of the magistrate's claws.

TIIE ROOKERY. 195

When Tibbets had pronounced this with great emphasis, he
pulled out a well-filled leathern purse, took out a handful of
gold and silver, paid his score at the bar with great punctual-
ity, returned his money, piece by piece, into his purse, his
purse into his pocket, which he buttoned up ; and then, giving
his cudgel a stout thump upon the floor, and bidding the radi-
cal "good-morning, sir!" with the tone of a man who con-
ceives he has completely done for his antagonist, he walked
with lion-like gravity out of the house. Two or three of Jack's
admirers who were present, and had been afraid to take the
field themselves, looked upon this as a perfect triumph, and
winked at each other when the radical's back was turned.
"Ay, ay!" said mine host, as soon as the radical was out of
hearing, "let old Jack alone; I'll warrant he'll give him his
own I"

THE EOOKERY.

But cawing rooks, and kites that swim sublime

In still repeated circles, screaming loud ;

The jay, the pie, and e'en the boding owl,

That hails the rising moon, have charms for me. — COWPEB.

IN a grove of tall oaks and beeches, that crowns a terrace*
walk, just on the skirts of the garden, is an ancient rookery,
which is one of the most important provinces in the Squire'a
rural domains. The old gentleman sets great store by his
rooks, and will not suffer one of them to be killed: in con-
sequence of which, they have increased amazingly; the tree-
tops are loaded with their nests ; they have encroached upon
the great avenue, and have even established, in times long
past, a colony among the elms and pines of the church-yard,
which, like other distant colonies, has already thrown off
allegiance to the mother country.

The rooks are looked up by the Squire as a very ancient and
honourable line of gentry, highly aristocratical in their notions,
fond of place, and attached to church and state ; as their build-
ing so loftily, keeping about churches and cathedrals, and in
the venerable groves of old castles and manor-houses, suffi-
ciently manifests. The good opinion thus expressed by the
Squire put me upon observing more narrowly these very re-
spectable birds, for I confess, to my shame, I had been apt to

196 BRACKBRWOE HALL

confound them with their cousins-german the crows, to whom,
at the first glance, they bear so great a family resemblance.
Nothing, it seems, could be more unjust or injurious than such
a mistake. The rooks and crows are, among the feathered
tribes, what the Spaniards and Portuguese are among nations,
the least loving, in consequence of their neighbourhood and
similarity. The rooks are old established housekeepers, high-
minded gentlefolk, that have had their hereditary abodes tine
out of mind ; but as to the poor crows, they are a kind of vag; i
bond, predatory, gipsy race, roving about the country without
any settled home; "their hands are against every body, and
every body's against them;" and they are gibbeted in every
corn-field. Master Simon assures me that a female rook, that
should so far forget herself as to consort with a crow, would
inevitably be disinherited, and indeed would be totally dis-
carded by all her genteel acquaintance.

The Squire is very watchful over the interests and concerns
of his sable neighbours. As to Master Simon, he even pretends
to know many of them by sight, and to have given names to
them ; he points out several, which he says are old heads of
families, and compares them to worthy old citizens, before-
hand in the world, that wear cocked hats, and silver buckles
in their shoes. Notwithstanding the protecting benevolence of
the Squire, and their being residents in his empire, they seem
to acknowledge no allegiance, and to hold no intercourse or
intimacy. Their airy tenements are built almost out of the
reach of gun-shot ; and, notwithstanding their vicinity to the
Hall, they maintain a most reserved and distrustful shyness of
mankind.

There is one season of the year, however, which brings all
birds in a manner to a level, and tames the pride of the loftiest
•high-flyer — which is the season of building their nests. This
jtakes place early in the spring, when the forest trees first begin
to show their buds ; the long, withy ends of the branches to
turn green; when the wild strawberry, and other herbage of
the sheltered woodlands, put forth their tender and tinted
leaves ; and the daisy and the primrose peep from under the
hedges. At this time there is a general bustle among the f < >.- 1 1 1 1-
ered tribes ; an incessant fluttering about, and a cheerful chirp-
ing; indicative, like the germination of the vegetable world,
of the reviving life and fecundity of the year.

It is then that the rooks forget their usual stateliness and
their shy and lofty habits. Instead of keeping up in the high

THE ROOKERY. 197

regions of the air, swinging on the breezy tree-tops, and look-
ing down with sovereign contempt upon the humble crawlers
upon earth, they are fain to throw off for a time the dignity of
the gentleman, to come down to the ground, and put on the
pains-taking f,nd industrious character of a labourer. They
now lose their natural shyness, become fearless and familiar,
and may be seen plying about in all directions, with an air of
great assiduity, in search of building materials. Every now
and then your path will be crossed by one of these busy old
gentlemen, worrying about with awkward gait, as if troubled
with the gout, or with corns on his toes, casting about many a
prying look, turning down first one eye, then the other, in
earnest consideration, upon every straw he meets with ; until,
espying some mighty twig, large enough to make a rafter for
his air-castle, he will seize upon it with avidity, and hurry
away with it to the tree-top; fearing, apparently, lest you
should dispute with him the invaluable prize.

Like other castle-builders, these airy architects seem rather
fanciful in the materials with which they build, and to like
those most which come from a distance. Thus, though there
are abundance of dry twigs on the surrounding trees, yet they
never think of making use of them, but go foraging in distant
lands, and come sailing home, one by one, from the ends of the
earth, each bearing in his bill some precious piece of timber.

Nor must I avoid mentioning what, I grieve to say, rather
derogates from the grave and honourable character of these
ancient gentlefolk ; that, during the architectural season, they
are subject to great dissensions among themselves ; that they
make no scruple to defraud and plunder each other; and that
sometimes the rookery is a scene of hideous brawl and commo-
tion, in consequence of some delinquency of the kind. One of
the partners generally remains on the nest, to guard it from
depredation, and I have seen severe contests, when some
sly neighbour has endeavoured to filch away a tempting rafter
that has captivated his eye. As I am not willing to admit any
suspicion hastily, that should throw a stigma on the general
character of so worshipful a people, I am inclined to think that
these larcenies are very much discountenanced by the higher
classes, and even rigorously punished by those in authority;
for I have now and then seen a whole gang of rooks fall upon
the nest of some individual, pull it all to pieces, carry off the
spoils, and even buffet the luckless proprietor. I have con-
cluded this to be some signal punishment inflicted upon him,

198 BRACEBR1DGE HALL.

by the officers of the police, for some pilfering misdemeanour4,
or, perhaps, that it was a crew of bailiffs carrying an execution
into his house.

I have been amused with another of their movements during
the building season. The steward has suffered a considerable
number of sheep to graze on a lawn near the house, somewhat
to the annoyance of the Squire, who thinks this an innovation
on the dignity of a park, which ought to be devoted to deer
only. Be this as it may, there is a green knoll, not far from
the drawing-room window, where the ewes and lambs are ac-
customed to assemble towards evening, for the benefit of the
setting sun. No sooner were they gathered here, at the time
when these politic birds were building, than a stately old rook,
who Master Simon assured me was the chief magistrate of this
community, would settle down upon the head of one of the
ewes, who, seeming conscious of this condescension, would
desist from grazing, and stand fixed in motionless reverence of
her august burthen ; the rest of the rookery would then come
wheeling down, in imitation of their leader, until every ewe
had two or three of them cawing, and fluttering, and battling
upon her back. Whether they requited the submission of the
sheep, by levying a contribution upon their fleece for the bene-
fit of the rookery, I am not certain; though I presume they
followed the usual custom of protecting powers.

The latter part of May is the time of great tribulation among
the rookeries, when the young are just able to leave their nests,
and balance themselves on the neighbouring branches. Now
comes on the season of "rook shooting;" a terrible slaughter
of the innocents. The Squire, of course, prohibits all invasion
of the kind on his territories; but I am told that a lamentable
havoc takes place in the colony about the old church. Upon
this devoted commonwealth the village charges "with all its
chivalry." Every idle wight that is lucky enough to possess
an old gun or blunderbuss, together with all the archery of
Slingsby's school, take the field on the occasion. In vain does
the little parson interfere, or remonstrate, in angry tones
from his study window that looks into the churchyard ; there
is a continual popping, from morning till night. Being no great
marksmen, their shots are not often effective ; but every now
and then, a great shout from the besieging army of bumpkins
makes known the downfall of some unlucky squab rook, which
comes to the ground with the emphasis of a squashed apple-
dumpling.

TSE ROOKERY. 199

Nor is the rookery entirely free from other troubles and
disasters. In so aristocratical and lofty-minded a community,
which boasts so much ancient blood and hereditary pride, it is
natural to suppose that questions of etiquette will sometimes
arise and affairs of honour ensue. In fact, this is very often
the case ; bitter quarrels break out between individuals, which
produce sad scufflings on tree-tops, and I have more than once
seen a regular duel take place between two doughty heroes of
the rookery. Their field of battle is generally the air; and
their contest is managed in the most scientific and elegant
manner ; wheeling round and round each other, and towering
higher and higher, to get the vantage-ground, until they some-
times disappear in the clouds before the combat is deter-
mined.

They have also fierce combats now and then with an invad-
ing hawk, and will drive him off from their territories by a
posse comitatus. They are also extremely tenacious of their
domains, and will suffer no other bird to inhabit the grove or
its vicinity. There was a very ancient and respectable old
bachelor owl, that had long had his lodgings in a corner of the
grove, but has been fairly ejected by the rooks ; and has re-
tired, disgusted with the world, to a neighbouring wood, where
he leads the life of a hermit, and makes nightly complaints of
his ill-treatment.

The hootings of this unhappy gentleman may generally be
heard in the still evenings, when the rooks are all at rest ; and
I have often listened to them of a moonlight night with a kind
of mysterious gratification. This gray -bearded misanthrope,
of coiirse, is highly respected by the Squire ; but the servants
have superstitious notions about him, and it would be difficult
to get the dairy -maid to venture after dark near to the wood
which he inhabits.

Beside the private quarrels of the rooks, there are other mis-
fortunes to which they aiie liable, and which often bring dis-
tress into the most respectable families of the rookery. Having
the true baronial spirit of the good old feudal times, they are apt
now and then to issue forth from their castles on a foray, and
to lay the plebeian fields of the neighbouring country under con-
tribution ; in the course of which chivalrous expeditions, they
now and then get a shot from the rusty artillery of some re-
fractory farmer. Occasionally, too, while they are quietly
taking the air beyond the park boundaries, they have the in-
caution to come within the reach of the truant bowman of

200 BRACEBRIDGE HALL,

Slingsby's school, and receive a flight shot from some unlucky
urchin's arrow. In such case, the wounded adventurer will
sometimes have just strength enough to bring himself home,
and, giving up the ghost at the rookery, will hang dangling "all
abroad " on a bough, like a thief on a gibbet — an awful warning
to his friends, and an object of great commiseration to the
Squire.

But, maugre all these untoward incidents, the rooks have,
upon the whole, a happy holiday life of it. When their young
are reared and fairly launched upon their native element, the
air, the cares of the old folks seem over, and they resume all
their aristocratical dignity and idleness. I have envied them
the enjoyment which they appear to have in their ethereal
heights, sporting with clamorous exultation about their lofty
bowers; sometimes hovering over them, sometimes partially
alighting upon the topmost branches, and there balancing with
outstretched wings and swinging in the breeze. Sometimes
they seem to take a fashionable drive to the church and amuse
themselves by circling in airy rings about its spire ; at other
times a mere garrison is left at home to mount guard in their
stronghold at the grove, while the rest roam abroad to enjoy
the fine weather. About sunset the garrison gives notice of
their return ; their faint cawing will be heard from a great dis-
tance, and they will be seen far off like a sable cloud, and then
nearer and nearer, until they all come soaring home. Then
they perform several grand circuits in the air over the Hall
and garden, wheeling closer and closer until they gradually
settle down, when a prodigious cawing takes place, as though
they were relating their day's adventures.

I like at such times to walk about these dusky groves, and
hear the various sounds of these airy people roosted so high
above me. As the gloom increases, their conversation sub-
sides, and they seem to be gradually dropping asleep; but
every now and then there is a querulous note, as if some one
was quarrelling for a pillow, or a little more of the blanket.
It is late in the evening before they completely sink to repose,
and then their old anchorite neighbour, the owl, begins hii
lonely hooting from his bachelor's-hall in the wood.

MAY-DAY. 201

MAY-DAY.

It is the choice time of the year,

For the violets now appear;

Now the rose receives its birth,

And pretty primrose decks the earth.
Then to the May -pole come away,
For it is now a holiday. — Acteon and Diana.

As I was lying in bed this morning, enjoying one of those
half dreams, half reveries, which are so pleasant in the coun-
try, when the birds are singing about the window, and the
sunbeams peeping through the curtains, I was roused by the
sound of music. On going down-stairs I found a number of
villagers, dressed in their holiday clothes, bearing a pole orna-
mented with garlands and ribands, and accompanied by the
village band of music, under the direction of the tailor, the pale
fellow who plays on the clarionet. They had all sprigs of haw-
thorn, or, as it is called, "the May, "in their hats, and had
brought green branches and flowers to decorate the Hall door
and windows. They had come to give notice that the May-pole
was reared on the green, and to invite the household to witness
the sports. The Hall, according to custom, became a scene of
hurry and delighted confusion. The servants were all agog with
May and music ; and there was no keeping either the tongues or
the feet of the maids quiet, who were anticipating the sports of
the green and the evening dance.

I repaired to the village at an early hour, to enjoy the merry-
making. The morning was pure and sunny, such as a May
morning is always described. The fields were white with
daisies, the hawthorn was covered with its fragrant blossoms,
the bee hummed about every bank, and the swallow played
high in the air about the village steeple. It was one of those
genial days when we seem to draw in pleasure with the very
air we breathe, and to feel happy we know not why. Who-
ever has felt the worth of worthy man, or has doted on lovely
woman, will, on such a day, call them tenderly to mind, and
feel his heart all alive with long-buried recollections. "For
thenne," says the excellent romance of King Arthur, "lovers
call ageyne to their mynde old gentilnes and old servyse, and
many kind dedes that were forgotten by neglygence."

Before reaching the village, I saw the May -pole towering
above the cottages with its gay garlands and streamers, and.

202 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

heard the sound of music. I found that there had been booths
set up near it, for the reception of company ; and a bower of
green branches and flowers for the Queen of May, a fresh, rosy-
cheeked girl of the village.

A band of morris-dancers were capering on the green in
their fantastic dresses, jingling with hawks' bells, with a boy
dressed up as Maid Marian, and the attendant fool rattling his
box to collect contributions from the bystanders. The gipsy-
women too were already plying their mystery in by-corners
of the village, reading the hands of the simple country girls,
and no doubt promising them all good husbands and tribes
of children.

The Squire made his appearance in the course of the morning,
attended by the parson, and was received with loud acclama-
tions. He mingled among the country people throughout the
day, giving and receiving pleasure wherever he went. The
amusements of the day were under the management of Slingsby,
the schoolmaster, who is not merely lord of misrule in his
school, but master of the revels to the village. He was bustling
about, with the perplexed and anxious air of a man who has
the oppressive burthen of promoting other people's merriment
upon his mind. He had involved himself in a dozen scrapes,
in consequence of a politic intrigue, which, by-the-by, Master
Simon and the Oxonian were at the bottom of, which had for
object the election of the Queen of May. Ho had met with vio-
lent opposition from a faction of ale-drinkers, who were in
favour of a bouncing bar-maid, the daughter of the innkeeper ;
but he had been too strongly backed not to carry his point,
though it shows that these rural crowns, like all others, are
objects of great ambition and heart-burning. I am told that
Master Simon takes great interest, though in an underlmml
way, in the election of these May-day Queens, and that the
chaplet is generally secured for some rustic beauty that has
found favour in his eyes.

In the course of the day, there were various games of strength
and agility on the green, at which a knot of village veterans
presided, as judges of the lists. Among these I perceived that
Ready-Money Jack took the lead, looking with a learned and
critical eye on the merits of the different candidates; and,
though he was very laconic, and sometimes merely expr< 1
himself by a nod, yet it was evident that his opinions far out-
weighed those of the most loquacious.

Young Jack Tibbets was the hero of the day, and carried off

MAY-DAT. 203

most of the prizes, though hi some of the feats of agility he was
rivalled by the "prodigal son," who appeared much in his ele-
ment on this occasion ; but his most formidable competitor was
the notorious gipsy, the redoubtable "Starlight Tom." I was
rejoiced at having an opportunity of seeing this ' ' minion of the
moon" in broad daylight. I found him a tall, swarthy, good-
looking fellow, with a lofty air, something like what I have
seen in an Indian chieftain ; and with a certain lounging, easy,
and almost graceful carriage, which I have often remarked in
beings of the lazzaroni order, that lead an idle loitering life, and
have a gentlemanlike contempt of labour.

Master Simon and the old general reconnoitred the ground
together, and indulged a vast deal of harmless raking among
the buxom country girls. Master Simon would give some of
them a kiss on meeting with them, and would ask after their
sisters, for he is acquainted with most of the farmers' families.
Sometimes he would whisper, and affect to talk mischievously
with them, and, if bantered on the subject, would turn it off
with a laugh, though it was evident he liked to be suspected of
being a gay Lothario amongst them.

He had much to say to the farmers about their farms ; and
seemed to know all their horses by name. There was an old
fellow, with round ruddy face, and a night-cap under his hat,
the village wit, who took several occasions to crack a joke with
him in the hearing of his companions, to whom he would turn
and wink hard when Master Simon had passed.

The harmony of the day, however, had nearly, at one time,
been interrupted by the appearance of the radical on the
ground, with two or three of his disciples. He soon got
engaged in argument in the very thick of the throng, above
which I could hear his voice, and now and then see his meagre
hand, half a mile out of the sleeve, elevated in the air in vio-[
lent gesticulation, and flourishing a pamphlet by way of trun-j
cheon. He was decrying these idle nonsensical amusements hi
tune of public distress, when it was every one's business to
think of other matters, and to be miserable. The honest vil-
lage logicians could make no stand against him, especially as
he was seconded by his proselytes ; when, to their great joy,
Master Simon and the general came drif ting down into the field
of action. I saw that Master Simon was for making off, as
soon as he found himself in the neighbourhood of this fire-ship ;
but the general was too loyal to suffer such talk in his hearing,
and thought, no doubt, that a look and a word from a gentlo-

204 BRACEBR1DOE HALL.

man would be sufficient to shut up so shabby an orator. The
latter, however, was no respecter of persons, but rather seemed
to exult in having such important antagonists. He talked with
greater volubility than ever, and soon drowned them in
declamation on the subject of taxes, poor's rates, and the
national debt. Master Simon endeavoured to brush along in
his usual excursive manner, which had always answered
amazingly well with the villagers ; but the radical was one of
those pestilent fellows that pin a man down to facts; and,
indeed, he had two or three pamphlets in his pocket, to sup-
port every thing he advanced by printed documents. The
general, too, found himself betrayed into a more serious action
than his dignity could brook ; and looked like a mighty Dutch
Indiaman, grievously peppered by a petty privateer. It was
in vain that he swelled and looked big, and talked large, and
endeavoured to make up by pomp of manner for poverty of
matter; every home-thrust of the radical made him wheeze
like a bellows, and seemed to let a volume of wind out of him.
In a word, the two worthies from the Hall were completely
dumbfounded, and this too in the presence of several of Master
Simon's staunch admirers, who had always looked up to him
as infallible. I do not know how he and the general would
have managed to draw their forces decently from the field,
had there not been a match at grinning through a horse-collar
announced, whereupon the radical retired with great expres-
sion of contempt, and, as soon as his back was turned, the
argument was carried against him all hollow.

"Did you ever hear such a pack of stuff, general?" said Mas-
ter Simon; "there's no talking with one of these chaps, when
he once gets that confounded Cobbett in his head. "

"S'blood, sir!" said the general, wiping his forehead, "such
fellows ought all to be transported 1"

In the latter part of the day, the ladies from the Hall paid a
visit to the green. The fair Julia made her appearance lean-
ing on her lover's arm, and looking extremely pale and inter-
esting. As she is a great favourite in the village, where she
has been known from childhood ; and as her late accident had
been much talked about, the sight of her caused very manifest
delight, and some of the old women of the village blessed her
sweet face as she passed.

While they were walking about, I noticed the schoolmaster
in earnest conversation with the young girl that represented
the Queen of May, evidently endeavouring to spirit her up to

MAT-DAT. 205

eome formidable undertaking. At length, as the party from
the Hall approached her bower, she came forth, faltering at
every step, until she reached the spot where the fair Julia
stood between her lover and Lady Lilly craft. The little Queen
then took the chaplet of flowers from her head, and attempted
to put it on that of the bride elect ; but the confusion of both
was so great, that the wreath would have fallen to the ground,
had not the officer caught it, and, laughing, placed it upon the
blushing brows of his mistress. There was something charm-
ing in the very embarrassment of these two young creatures,
both so beautiful, yet so different in their kinds of beauty.
Master Simon told me, afterwards, that the Queen of May was
to have spoken a few verses which the schoolmaster had
written for her ; but that she had neither wit to understand, nor
memory to recollect them. "Besides," added he, "between
you and I, she murders the king's English abominably ; so she
has acted the part of a wise woman, in holding her tongue, and
trusting to her pretty face."

Among the other characters from the Hall was Mrs. Hannah,
my Lady Lillycraft's gentlewoman; to my surprise, she was
escorted by old Christy, the huntsman, and followed by his
ghost of a grayhound ; but I find they are very old acquaint-
ances, being drawn together by some sympathy of disposition.
Mrs. Hannah moved about with starched dignity among the
rustics, who drew back from her with more awe than they did
from her mistress. Her mouth seemed shut as with a clasp ;
excepting that I now and then heard the word "fellows!"
escape from between her lips, as she got accidentally jostled in
the crowd.

But there was one other heart present that did not enter into
the merriment of the scene, which was that of the simple
Phoebe Wilkins, the housekeeper's niece. The poor girl has
continued to pine and whine for some time past, in consequence
of the obstinate coldness of her lover ; never was a little flirta-
tion more severely punished. She appeared this day on the
green, gallanted by a smart servant out of livery, and had
evidently resolved to try the hazardous experiment of awaken-
ing the jealousy of her lover. She was dressed in her very
best ; affected an air of great gayety ; talked loud and girlishly,
and laughed when there was nothing to laugh at. There was,
however, an aching, heavy heart in the poor baggage's bosom,
in spite of all her levity. Her eye turned every now and then
in quest of her reckless lover, and her cheek grew pale, and

206 BRACEBRIDGE HALL

her fictitious gayety vanished, on seeing him paying his rustic
homage to the little May -day Queen.

My attention was now diverted by a fresh stir and bustle.

Music was heard from a distance ; a banner was seen advancing

up the road, preceded by a rustic band playing something like

, a march, and followed by a sturdy throng of country lads, the

chivalry of a neighbouring and rival village.

No sooner had they reached the green, than they challenged
the heroes of the day to new trials of strength and activity.
Several gymnastic contests ensued, for the honour of the re-
spective villages. In the course of these exercises, young Tib-
bets and the champion of the adverse party had an obstinate
match at wrestling. They tugged, and strained, and panted,
without either getting the mastery, until both came to the
ground, and rolled upon the green. Just then, the disconsolate
Phoebe came by. She saw her recreant lover hi fierce contest,
as she thought, and in danger. In a moment pride, pique, and
coquetry, were forgotten ; she rushed into the ring, seized upon
the rival champion by the hair, and was on the point of wreak-
ing on him her puny vengeance, when a buxom, strapping
country lass, the sweetheart of the prostrate swain, pounced
upon her like a hawk, and would have stripped her of her
fine plumage in a twinkling, had she also not been seized in
her turn.

A complete tumult ensued. The chivalry of the two villages
became embroiled. Blows began to be dealt, and sticks to be
flourished. Phoebe was carried off from the field in hysterics.
In vain did the sages of the village interfere. The sententious
apothecary endeavoured to pour the soothing oil of his philo-
sophy upon this tempestuous sea of passion, but was tumbled
into the dust. Slingsby, the pedagogue, who is a great lover
of peace, went into the midst of the throng, as marshal of the
day, to put an end to the commotion ; but was rent in twain,
and came out with his garment hanging in two strips from his
shoulders ; upon which the prodigal son dashed hi with fury,
to revenge the insult which his patron had sustained. The
tumult thickened ; I caught glimpses of the jockey -cap of old
Christy, like the helmet of a chieftain, bobbing about in the
midst of the scuffle ; whilst Mistress Hannah, separated from
her doughty protector, was squalling and striking at right and
left with a faded parasol ; being tossed and tousled about by
the crowd in such wise as never happened to maiden gentle-
woman before.

MAT-DAT. 207

At length I beheld old Ready-Money Jack making his way
into the very thickest of the throng ; tearing it, as it were,
apart, and enforcing peace, m et armis. It was surprising to
see the sudden quiet that ensued. The storm settled down at
once into tranquillity. The parties, having no real grounds of
hostility, were readily pacified, and in fact were a little at a
loss to know why and how they had got by the ears. Slingsby
was speedily stitched together again by his friend the tailor,
and resumed his usual good-humour. Mrs. Hannah drew on
one side, to plume her rumpled feathers ; and old Christy, hav-
ing repaired his damages, took her under his arm, and they
swept back again to the Hall, ten tunes more bitter against
mankind than ever.

The Tibbets family alone seemed slow in recovering from the
agitation of the scene. Young Jack was evidently very much
moved by the heroism of the unlucky Phoebe. His mother,
who had been summoned to the field of action by news of the
affray, was in a sad panic, and had need of all her manage-
ment to keep him from following his mistress, and coming to
a perfect reconciliation.

What heightened the alarm and perplexity of the good
managing dame was, that the matter had aroused the slow
apprehension of old Ready-Money himself; who was very
much struck by the intrepid interference of so pretty and deli-
cate a girl, and was sadly puzzled to understand the meaning
of the violent agitation in his family.

When all this came to the ears of the Squire, he was griev-
ously scandalized that his May-day fete should have been dis-
graced by such a brawl. He ordered Phoebe to appear before
him ; but the girl was so frightened and distressed, that she
came sobbing and trembling, and, at the first question he
asked, fell again into hysterics. Lady Lillycraft, who had
understood that there was an affair of the heart at the bot-
tom of this distress, immediately took the girl into great fa-
vour and protection, and made her peace with the Squire.
This was the only thing that disturbed the harmony of the
day, if we except the discomfiture of Master Simon and the
general by the radical. Upon the whole, therefore, the Squire
had very fair reason to be satisfied that he had ridden his hobby
throughout the day without any other molestation.

The reader, learned in these matters, will perceive that all
this was but a faint shadow of the once gay and fanciful rites
of May. The peasantry have lost the proper feeling for these

208 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

rites, and have grown almost as strange to them as the boors
of La Mancha were to the customs of chivalry, in the days of
the valorous Don Quixote. Indeed, I considered it a proof of
the discretion with which the Squire rides his hobby, that he
had not pushed the thing any farther, nor attempted to revive
many obsolete usages of the day, which, in the present matter-
of-fact times, would appear affected and absurd. I must say,'
though I do it under the rose, the general brawl hi which this
festival had nearly terminated, has made me doubt whether
these rural customs of the good old times were always so very
loving and innocent as we are apt to fancy them ; and whether
the peasantry in those times were really so Arcadian as they
have been fondly represented. I begin to fear—

" Those days were never; airy dream

Sat for the picture, and the poet's hand,
Imparting substance to an empty shade,
Imposed a gay delirium for a truth.
Qrant it; I still must envy them an age
That favour'd such a dream."

THE MANUSCRIPT.

YESTERDAY was a day of quiet and repose, after the bustle of
May -day. During the morning, I joined the ladies in a small
sitting-room, the windows of which came down to the floor,
and opened upon a terrace of the garden, which was set out
with delicate shrubs and flowers. The soft sunshine that fell
into the room through the branches of trees that overhung the
windows, the sweet smell of the flowers, and the singing of the
birds, seemed to produce a pleasing yet calming effect on the
whole party ; for some time elapsed without any one speaking, I
Lady Lilly craft and Miss Tcmpleton were sitting by an elegant
work-table, near one of the windows, occupied with some
pretty lady-like work. The captain was on a stool at his mis-
tress' feet, looking over some music ; and poor Phoebe Wilkins,
who has always been a kind of pet among the ladies, but who
has risen vastly in favour with Lady Lillycraft, in consequence
of some tender confessions, sat in one corner of the room, with
swoln eyes, working pensively at some of the fair Julia's wed-
ding ornaments.

The silence was interrupted by her ladyship, who suddenly

THE MANUSCUIPT. 209

proposed a task to the captain. "I am in your debt," said
she, "for that tale you read to us the other day; I will now
furnish one in return, if you'll read it : and it is just suited to
this sweet May morning, for it is all about love !"

The proposition seemed to delight every one present. The
captain smiled assent. Her ladyship rung for her page, and
despatched him to her room for the manuscript. "As the
captain," said she, "gave us an account of the author of hie
story, it is but right I should give one of mine. It was written
by the parson of the parish where I reside. He is a thin, elderly
man, of a delicate constitution, but positively one of the most
charming men that ever lived. He lost his wife a few years
since ; one of the sweetest women you ever saw. He has two
sons, whom he educates himself; both of whom already write
delightful poetry. His parsonage is a lovely place, close by
the church, all overrun with ivy and honeysuckles ; with the
eweetest flower-garden about it ; for, you know, our country
clergymen are almost always fond of flowers, and make their
parsonages perfect pictures.

"His living is a very good one, and he is very much
beloved, and does a great deal of good in the neighbourhood,
and among the poor. And then such sermons as he preaches !
Oh, if you could only hear one taken from a text in Solomon's
Song, all about love and matrimony, one of the sweetest things
you ever heard ! He preaches it at least once a year, in spring-
time, for he knows I am fond of it. He always dines with me
on Sundays, and often brings me some of the sweetest pieces
of poetry, all about the pleasures of melancholy, and such sub-
jects, that make me cry so, you can't think. I wish he would
publish. I think he has some things as sweet as any thing of
Moore or Lord Byron.

"He fell into very ill health some time ago, and was
4dvised to go to the continent \ and I gave him no peace until
he went, and promised to take care of his two boys until he
returned.

"He was gone for above a year, and was quite restored.
When he came back, he sent me the tale I'm going to show
you. — Oh, here it is !" said she, as the page put in her hands a
beautiful box of satinwood. She unlocked it, and from among
several parcels of notes on embossed paper, cards of charades,
and copies of verses, she drew out a crimson velvet case, that
smelt very much of perfumes. From this she took a manu-
script, daintily written on gilt-edged vellum paper, and stitched

210 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

with a light blue riband. This she handed to the captain,
who read the following tale, which I have procured for the
entertainment of the reader.

ANNETTE DELARBRE.

The soldier f rae the war returns,
And the merchant from the main,
But I hae parted with my love,
And ne'er to meet again,

My dear.
And ne'er to meet again.

When day is gone, and night is come.
And a' are boun to sleep,
I think on them that's far awa
The lee-lang night, and weep.

My dear,
The lee-lang night, and weep.— Old Scotch Ballad.

IN the course of a tour that I once made in Lower Normandy,
I remained for a day or two at the old town of Honfleur, which
stands near the mouth of the Seme. It was the time of a fete,
and all the world was thronging in the evening to dance at the
fair, held before the chapel of Our Lady of Grace. As I like
all kinds of innocent merry-making, I joined the throng.

The chapel is situated at the top of a high hill, or promon-
tory, from whence its bell may be heard at a distance by the
mariner at night. It is said to have given the name to the port
of Havre-de-Grace, which lies directly opposite, on the other
side of the Seine. The road up to the chapel went in a zigzag
0001-86, along the brow of the steep coast ; it was shaded by
trees, from between which I had beautiful peeps at the ancient
towers of Honfleur below, the varied scenery of the opposite
shore, the white buildings of Havre in the distance, and the
wide sea beyond. The road was enlivened by groups of pea-
sant girls, in their bright crimson dresses and tall caps ; and I
found all the flower of the neighbourhood assembled on the
green that crowns the summit of the hill.

The chapel of Notre Dame de Grace is a favourite resort of
the inhabitants of Honfleur and its vicinity, both for pleasure
and devotion. At this little chapel prayers are put up by the
mariners of the port previous to their voyages, and by their
friends during their absence; and votive offerings are hung

ANNETTE DELARBRE. 21 1

about its walls, in fulfilment of vows made during times
of shipwreck and disaster. The chapel is surrounded by trees.
Over the portal is an image of the Virgin and child, with an
inscription whicif struck me as being quite poetical:

' Etoile de la mer, priez pour nous!"
(Star of the sea, pray for us.)

On a level spot near the chapel, under a grove of noble trees,
the populace dance on fine summer evenings ; and here are held
frequent fairs and fetes, which assemble all the rustic beauty
of the loveliest parts of Lower Normandy. The present was
an occasion of the kind. Booths and tents were erected among
the trees ; there were the usual displays of finery to tempt the
rural coquette, and of wonderful shows to entice the curious ;
mountebanks were exerting their eloquence; jugglers and
fortune-tellers astonishing the credulous ; while whole rows of
grotesque saints, in wood and wax-work, were offered for the
purchase of the pious.

The fete had assembled in one view all the picturesque cos-
tumes of the Pays d'Auge, and the Cote de Caux. I beheld
tall, stately caps, and trim bodices, according to fashions which
have been handed down from mother to daughter for centuries,
the exact counterparts of those worn in the time of the Con-
queror ; and which surprised me by their faithful resemblance
to those which I had seen in the old pictures of Froissart's
Chronicles, and in the paintings of illuminated manuscripts.
Any one, also, that has been in Lower Normandy, must have
remarked the beauty of the peasantry, and that air of native
elegance that prevails among them. It is to this country,
undoubtedly, that the English owe their good looks. It was
from hence that the bright carnation, the fine blue eye, the
light auburn hair, passed over to England in the train of the
Conqueror, and filled the land with beauty.

The scene before me was perfectly enchanting : the assem-
<?lage of so many fresh and blooming faces ; the gay groups in
fanciful dresses ; some dancing on the green, others strolling
about, or seated on the grass ; the fine clumps of trees in the
foreground, bordering the brow of this airy height, and the
broad green sea, sleeping in summer tranquillity in the dis-
tance.

Whilst I was regarding this animated picture, I was struck
with the appearance of a beautiful girl, who passed through the
crowd without seeming to take any interest in their amuse-

212 BBAOSBBtDGB HALL.

merits. She was slender and delicate in her form ; she had not
the bloom upon her cheek that is usual among the peasantry of
Normandy, and her blue eyes had a singular and melancholy
expression. She was accompanied by a venerable-looking
man, whom I presumed to be her father. There was a whisper
among the bystanders, and a wistful look after her as she
passed; the young men touched their hats, and some of the
children followed her at a little distance, watching her move-
ments. She approached the edge of the hill, where there is a
little platform, from whence the people of Honfleur look out
for the approach of vessels. Here she stood for some time
waving her handkerchief, though there was nothing to be
seen but two or three fishing-boats, like mere specks on the
bosom of the distant ocean.

These circumstances excited my curiosity, and I made some
inquiries about her, which were answered with readiness and
intelligence by a priest of the neighbouring chapel. Our con-
versation drew together several of the by-standers, each of
whom had something to communicate, and from them all I
gathered the following particulars.

Annette Delarbre was the only daughter of one of the liigher
order of farmers, or small proprietors, as they are called, who
lived at Pont TEveque, a pleasant village not far from Honfleur,
in that rich pastoral part of Lower Normandy called the Pays
d'Auge. Annette was the pride and delight of her parents,
and was brought up with the fondest indulgence. She was gay,
tender, petulant, and susceptible. All her feelings were quick
and ardent; and having never experienced contradiction or
restraint, she was little practised in self-control: nothing but
the native goodness of her heart kept her from running con-
tinually into error.

Even while a child, her susceptibility was evinced in an
attachment which she formed to a playmate, Eugene La
Forgue, the only son of a widow, who lived in the neighbour-
hood. Their childish love was an epitome of maturer passion ;
it had its caprices, and jealousies, and quarrels, and reconcilia-
tions. It was assuming something of a graver character, as
Annette entered her fifteenth and Eugene his nineteenth
year, when he was suddenly carried off to the army by the
conscription.

It was a heavy blow to his widowed mother, for he was her
only pride and comfort ; but it was one of those sudden bereave-
ments which mothers w.ere perpetually doomed to feel iq

ANNETTE LELARBRE. 213

France, during the time that continual and bloody wars were
incessantly draining her youth. It was a temporary affliction
also to Annette, to lose her lover. With tender embraces, half
childish, half womanish, she parted from him. The tears
streamed from her blue eyes, as she bound a braid of her fair
hair round his wrist ; but the smiles still broke through ; for she
was yet too young to feel how serious a thing is separation,
and how many chances there are, when parting in this wide
world, against our ever meeting again.

Weeks, months, years flew by. Annette increased in beauty
as she increased in years, and was the reigning belle of the
neighbourhood. Her time passed innocently and happily. Her
father was a man of some consequence in the rural community,
and his house was the resort of the gayest of the village.
Annette held a kind of rural court ; she was always surrounded
by companions of her own age, among whom she alone
unrivalled. Much of their time was passed in making lace, the
prevalent manufacture of the neighbourhood. As they sat at
this delicate and feminine labour, the merry tale and sprightly
song went round; none laughed with a lighter heart than
Annette ; and if she sang, her voice was perfect melody. Their
evenings were enlivened by the dance, or by those pleasant
social games so prevalent among the French; and when she
appeared at the village ball on Sunday evenings, she was the
theme of universal admiration.

As she was a rural heiress, she did not want for suitors.
Many advantageous offers were made her, but she refused them
all. She laughed at the pretended pangs of her admirers, and
triumphed over them with the caprice of buoyant youth and
conscious beauty. With all her apparent levity, however,
could any one have read the story of her heart, they might
have traced in it some fond remembrance of her early play-f
mate, not so deeply graven as to be painful, but too deep to be
easily obliterated ; and they might have noticed, amidst all her
gayety, the tenderness that marked her manner towards the
mother of Eugene. She would often steal away from her youth-
ful companions and their amusements, to pass whole days with
the good widow ; listening to her fond talk about her boy, and
blushing with secret pleasure, when his letters were read, at
finding herself a constant theme of recollection and inquiry.

At length the sudden return of peace, which sent many a
warrior to his native cottage, brought back Eugene, a young
sun-burnt soldier, to the village. I need not say how raptur-

214 BRACEBR1DOE HALL.

ously his return was greeted by his mother, who saw in him
the pride and staff of her old age. He had risen in the service
by his merits; but brought away little from the wars, except-
ing a soldier-like air, a gallant name, and a scar across the
forehead. He brought back, however, a nature unspoiled by
the camp. He was frank, open, generous, and ardent. His
heart was quick and kind in its impulses, and was perhaps a
little softer from having suffered : it was full of tenderness for
Annette. He had received frequent accounts of her from his
mother ; and the mention of her kindness to his lonely parent,
had rendered her doubly dear to him. He had be jn wounded ;
he had been a prisoner; he had been in various troubles, but
had always preserved the braid of her hair, which she had
bound round his arm. It had been a kind of talisman to him ;
he had many a time looked upon it as he lay on the hard
ground, and the thought that he might one day see Annette
again, and the fair fields about his native village, had cheered
his heart, and enabled him to bear up against every hardship.

He had left Annette almost a child— he found her a blooming
woman. If he had loved her before, he now adored her.
Annette was equally struck with the improvement which time
had made in her lover. She noticed, with secret admiration,
his superiority to the other young men of the village; the
frank, lofty, military air, that distinguished him from all the
rest at their rural ffitlu-rings. The more she saw him, the
more her light, playful fondness of former years deepened into
ardent and powerful affection. But Annette was a rural belle.
She had tasted the sweets of dominion, and had been rendered
wilful and capricious by constant indulgence at home, and
admiration abroad. She was conscious of her power over
Eugene, and delighted in exercising it. She sometimes treated
him with petulant caprice, enjoying the pain which she inflicted
by her frowns, from the idea how soon she would chase it away
again by her smiles. She took a pleasure in alarming his fears,
by affecting a temporary preference to some one or other of his
rivals ; and then would delight in allaying them, by an ample
measure of returning kindness. Perhaps there was some
degree of vanity gratified by all this ; it might be a matter of
triumph to show her absolute power over the young soldier,
who was the universal object of female admiration. Eugene,
however, was of too serious and ardent a nature to be trifled
with. He loved too fervently not to be filled with doubt. He
saw Annette surrounded by admirers, and full of animation;

ANNETTE DELARBRE.

the gayest among the gay at all their rural festivities, and
apparently most gay when he was most dejected. Every one
saw through this caprice, but himself ; every one saw that in
reality she doted on him; but Eugene alone suspected the
sincerity of her affection. For some time he bore this coquetry
with secret impatience and distrust ; but his f eelings grew sore
and irritable, and overcame his self-command. A slight mis-
understanding took place; a quarrel ensued. Annette, unac-
customed to be thwarted and contradicted, and full of the
insolence of youthful beauty, assumed an air of disdain. She
refused all explanations to her lover, and they parted in anger.
That very evening Eugene saw her, full of gayety, dancing with
one of his rivals ; and as her eye caught his, fixed on her with
unfeigned distress, it sparkled with more than usual vivacity.
It was a finishing blow to his hopes, already so much impaired
by secret distrust. Pride and resentment both struggled in his
breast, and seemed to rouse his spirit to all its wonted energy.
He retired from her presence, with the hasty determination
never to see her again.

A woman is more considerate in affairs of love than a man ;
because love is. more the study and business of her life. An-
nette soon repented of her indiscretion ; she felt that she had
used her lover unkindly ; she felt that she had trifled with his
sincere and generous nature — and then he looked so handsome
when he parted after their quarrel — his fine features lighted up
by indignation. She had intended making up with him at the
evening dance ; but his sudden departure prevented her. She
now promised herself that when next they met she would am-
ply repay him by the sweets of a perfect reconciliation, and
that, thenceforward, she would never — never tease him more !
That promise was not to be fulfilled. Day after day passed —
but Eugene did not make his appearance. Sunday evening
came, the usual time when all the gayety of the village assem-
bled—but Eugene was not there. She inquired after him ; he
had left the village. She now became alarmed, and, forgetting
all coyness and affected indifference, called on Eugene's mother
for an explanation. She found her full of affliction, and learnt
with surprise and consternation that Eugene had gone to sea.

While his feelings were yet smarting with her affected dis-
dain, and his heart a prey to alternate indignation and despair,
he had suddenly embraced an invitation which had repeatedly
been made him by a relation, who was fitting out a ship from,
the port of Honfleur, aud who "wished him to be the companion

216 BRACEBR1DGB HALL.

of his voyage. Absence appeared to mm the only cure for his
unlucky passion ; and in the temporary transports of his feel-
ings, there was something gratifying in the idea of having half
the world intervene between them. The hurry necessary for
his departure left no time for cool reflection ; it rendered him
deaf to the remonstrances of his afflicted mother. He has-
tened to Honfleur just in time to make t'-.e needful preparations
for the voyage ; and the first news that Annette received of
this sudden determination was a letter delivered by his mother,
returning her pledges of affection, particularly the long-treas-
ured braid of her hair, and bidding her a last farewell, in terms
more full of sorrow and tenderness than upbraiding.

This was the first stroke of real anguish that Annette had
ever received, and it overcame her. The vivacity of her spirits
was apt to hurry her to extremes ; she for a time gave way to
ungovernable transports of affliction and remorse, and mani-
fested, in the violence of her grief, the real ardour of her affec-
tion. The thought occurred to her that the ship might not yet
have sailed ; she seized on the hope with eagerness, and has-
tened with her father to Honfleur. The ship had sailed that
very morning. From the heights above the town she saw it
lessening to a speck on the broad bosom of the ocean, and
before evening the white sail had faded from her sight. She
turned full of anguish to the neighbouring chapel of Our Lady
of Grace, and throwing herself on the pavement, poured out
prayers and tears for the safe return of her lover.

When she returned home, the cheerfulness of her spirits was
at an end. She looked back with remorse and self -upbraiding
at her past caprices ; she turned with distaste from the adula-
tion of her admirers, and had no longer any relish for the
amusements of the village. With humiliation and diffidence,
she sought the widowed mother of Eugene ; but was received
by her with an overflowing heart ; for she only beheld in An-
nette one who could sympathize in her doting fondness for her
son. It seemed some alleviation of her remorse to sit by the
mother all day, to study her wants, to beguile her heavy hours,
to hang about her with the caressing endearments of a daugh-
ter, and to seek by every means, if possible, to supply the place
of the son, whom she reproached herself with having driven
away.

In the mean time, the ship made a prosperous voyage to her
destined port. Eugene's mother received a letter from him, in
which he lamented the precipitancy of his departure. The

ANNETTE DELARBRE. 217

voyage had given him time for sober reflection. If Annette
had been unkind to him, he ought not to have forgotten what
was due to his mother, who was now advanced in years. He
accused himself of selfishness, in only listening to the sugges-
tions of his own inconsiderate passions. He promised to return
with the ship, to make his mind up to his disappointment, and

to think of nothing but making his mother happy ' ' And

when he does return," said Annette, clasping her hands with
transport, "it shall not be my fault if he ever leaves us again."

The time approached for the ship's return. She was daily
expected, when the weather became dreadfully tempestuous.
Day after day brought news of vessels foundered, or driven on
shore, and the coast was strewed with wrecks. Intelligence
was received of the looked-for ship having been seen dismasted
In a violent storm, and the greatest fears were entertained for
her safety.

Annette never left the side of Eugene's mother. She watched
every change of her countenance with painful solicitude, and
endeavoured to cheer her with hopes, while her own mind was
racked by anxiety. She tasked her efforts to be gay ; but it
was a forced and unnatural gayety: a sigh from the mother
would completely check it ; and when she could no longer re-
strain the rising tears, she would hurry away and pour out her
agony in secret. Every anxious look, every anxious inquiry
of the mother, whenever a door opened, or a strange face
appeared, was an arrow to her soul. She considered every dis-
appointment as a pang of her own infliction, and her heart
sickened under the careworn expression of the maternal eye.
At length this suspense became insupportable. She left the
village and hastened to Honfleur, hoping every hour, every
moment, to receive some tidings of her lover. She paced the
pier, and wearied the seamen of the port with her inquiries.
She made a daily pilgrimage to the chapel of Our Lady of
Grace; hung votive garlands on the wall, and passed hours
either kneeling before the altar, or looking out from the brow
of the hill upon the angry sea.

At length word was brought that the long-wished-for vessel
was in sight. She was seen standing into the mouth of the
Seine, shattered and crippled, bearing marks of having been
sadly tempest-tost. There was a general joy diffused by her
return ; and there was not a brighter eye, nor a lighter heart,
than Annette's, in the little port of Honfleur. The ship came
to anchor in the river, and shortly after a boat put off for thg

218 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

Bhore. The populace crowded down to the pier-head, to wel-
come it. Annette stood blushing, and smiling, and trembling,
and weeping; for a thousand painfully-pleasing emotions agi-
tated her breast at the thoughts of the meeting and reconcili-
ation about to take place.

Her heart throbbed to pour itself out, and atone to her gal-
lant lover for all its errors. At one moment she would place
herself in a conspicuous situation, where she might catch his
view at once, and surprise him by her welcome ; but the next
moment a doubt would come across her mind, and she would
shrink among the throng, trembling and faint, and gasping
with her emotions. Her agitation increased as the boat drew
near, until it became distressing ; and it was almost a relief to
her when she perceived that her lover was not there. She
presumed that some accident had detained him on board of the
ship ; and she felt that the delay would enable her to gather
more self-possession for the meeting. As the boat neared the
shore, many inquiries were made, and laconic answers returned.
At length Annette heard some inquiries after her lover. Her
heart palpitated — there was a moment's pause : the reply was
brief, but awful. He had been washed from the deck, with two
of the crew, in the midst of a stormy night, when it was im-
possible to render any assistance. A piercing shriek broke from
among the crowd; and Annette had nearly fallen into the
waves.

The sudden revulsion of feelings after such a transient gleam
of happiness, was too much for her harassed frame. Sne was
carried home senseless. Her lif e was for some time despaired
of, and it was months before she recovered her health ; but she
never had perfectly recovered her mind : it still remained un-
settled with respect to her lover's fate.

" The subject," continued my informant, " is never mentioned
in her hearing ; but she sometimes speaks of it herself, and it
seems as though there were some vague train of impressions in
her mind, in which hope and fear are strangely mingled— some
imperfect idea of ber lover's shipwreck, and yet some expecta-
tion of his return.

"Her parents have tried every means to cheer her, and to
banish these gloomy images from her thoughts. They assemble
round her the young companions in whose society she used to
delight ; and they will work, and chat, and sing, and laugh, as
formerly ; but she will sit silently among them, and will some-
times weep in the midst of their gaycty ; and, if spoken to, will

ANNETTE DELARBRE. 219

make no reply, but look up with streaming eyes, and sing
a dismal little song, which she has learned somewhere, about a
shipwreck. It makes every one's heart ache to see her in this
way, for she used to be the happiest creature in the village.

"She passes the greater part of the time with Eugene's
mother ; whose only consolation is her society, and who dotes
on her with a mother's tenderness. She is the only one that
has perfect influence over Annette in every mood. The poor
girl seems, as formerly, to make an effort to be cheerful in her
company; but will sometimes gaze upon her with the most
piteous look, and then kiss her gray hairs, and fall on her neck
and weep.

' ' She is not always melancholy, however ; she has occasional
intervals, when she will be bright and animated for days to-
gether ; but there is a degree of wildness attending these fits of
gayety, that prevents their yielding any satisfaction to her
friends. At such times she will arrange her room, which is all
covered with pictures of ships and legends of saints ; and will
wreathe a white chaplet, as if for a wedding, and prepare wed-
ding ornaments. She will listen anxiously at the door, and
look frequently out at the window, as if expecting some one's
arrival. It is supposed that at such times she is looking for
her lover's return ; but, as no one touches upon the theme, nor
mentions his name in her presence, the current of her thoughts
is mere matter of conjecture. Now and then she will make a
pilgrimage to the chapel of Notre Dame de Grace ; where she will
pray for hours at the altar, and decorate the images with wreaths
that she had woven ; or will wave her handkerchief from the
terrace, as you have seen, if there is any vessel in the distance."

Upwards of a year, he informed me, had now elapsed with-
out effacing from her mind this singular taint of insanity;
still her friends hoped it might gradually wear away. They f
had at one time removed her to a distant part of the country,
in hopes that absence from the scenes connected with her story
might have a salutary effect ; but, when her periodical melan-
choly returned, she became more restless and wretched than
usual, and, secretly escaping from her friends, set out on foot,
without knowing the road, on one of her pilgrimages to the
chapel.

This little story entirely drew my attention from the gay
scene of the fete, and fixed it upon the beautiful Annette.
While she was yet standing on the terrace, the vesper-bell was
rung from the neighbouring chapel. She listened for a moment

220 BRACEBR1DGE HALL.

and then drawing a small rosary from her bosom, walked in
that direction. Several of the peasantry followed her in
silence ; and I felt too much interested, not to do the same.

The chapel, as I said before, is in the midst of a grove, on the
high promontory. The inside is hung round with little models
of ships, and rude paintings of wrecks and perils at sea, and
providential deli verances — the votive offerings of captains and
crews that have been saved. On entering, Annette paused for
a moment before a picture of the virgin, which, I observed, had
recently been decorated with a wreath of artificial flowers.
When she reached the middle of the chapel she knelt down,
and those who followed her involuntarily did the same at a
little distance. The evening sun shone softly through the
checkered grove into one window of the chapel. A perfect
stillness reigned within ; and this stillness was the more impres-
sive contrasted with the distant sound of music and merriment
from the fair. I could not take my eyes off from the poor sup-
pliant ; her lips moved as she told her beads, but her prayers
were breathed in silence. It might have been mere fancy ex-
cited by the scene, that, as she raised her eyes to heaven, I
thought they had an expression truly seraphic. But I am
easily affected by female beauty, and there was something in
this mixture of love, devotion, and partial insanity, that was
inexpressibly touching.

As the poor girl left the chapel, there was a sweet serenity in
her looks ; and I was told that she would return home, and in
all probability be calm and cheerful for days, and even weeks ;
in which time it was supposed that hope predominated in her
mental malady ; and that, when the dark side of her mind, as
her friends call it, was about to turn up, it would be known by
her neglecting her distaff or her lace, singing plaintive songs,
and weeping in silence.

She passed on from the chapel without noticing the fete, but
smiling and speaking to many as she passed. I followed her
with my eye as she descended the winding road towards Hon-
fleur, leaning on her father's arm. " Heaven," thought I, " has
ever its store of balms for the hurt mind and wounded spirit,
and may in tune rear up this broken flower to be once more
the pride and joy of the valley. The very delusion in which
the poor girl walks, may be one of those mists kindly diffused
by providence over the regions of thought, when they become
too fruitful of misery. The veil may gradually be raised which
obscures the horizon of her mind, as she is enabled steadily and

ANNETTE DELARBHE. 221

Calmly to contemplate the sorrows at present hidden, in mercy
from her view."

On my return from Paris, about a year afterwards, I turned
off from the beaten route at Rouen, to revisit some of the most
striking scenes of Lower Normandy. Having passed through
the lovely country of the Pays d'Auge, I reached Honfleur on
a fine afternoon, intending to cross to Havre the next morn-
ing, and embark for England. As I had no better way of pass-
ing the evening, I strolled up the hill to enjoy the fine prospect
from the chapel of Notre Dame de Grace ; and while there, I
thought of inquiring after the fate of poor Annette Delarbre.
The priest who had told me her story was officiating at vespers,
after which I accosted him, and learnt from him the remaining
circumstances. He told me that from the time I had seen her
at the chapel, her disorder took a sudden turn for the worse,
and her health rapidly declined. Her cheerful intervals became
shorter and less frequent, and attended with more incoherency.
She grew languid, silent, and moody in her melancholy ; her
form was wasted, her looks pale and disconsolate, and it was
feared she would never recover. She became impatient of all
sounds of gayety, and was never so contented as when Eugene's
mother was near her. The good woman watched over her
with patient, yearning solicitude ; and in seeking to beguile her
sorrows, would half forget her own. Sometimes, as she sat
looking upon her pallid face, the tears would fill her eyes,
which, when Annette perceived, she would anxiously wipe
them away, and tell her not to grieve, for that Eugene would
soon return ; and then she would affect a forced gayety, as in
former times, and sing a lively air; but a sudden recollection
would come over her, and she would burst into tears, hang
on the poor mother's neck, and entreat her not to curse her
for having destroyed her son.

Just at this time, to the astonishment of every one, news was
received of Eugene ; who, it appeared, was still living. When
almost drowned, he had fortunately seized upon a spar which
had been washed from the ship's deck. Finding himself nearly
exhausted, he had fastened himself to it, and floated for a day
and night, until all sense had left him. On recovering, he had
found himself on board a vessel bound to India, but so ill as
not to move without assistance. His health had continued
precarious throughout the voyage ; on arriving in India, he had
experienced many vicissitudes, and had been transferred from

222 URACEBRIDOE HALL.

ship to ship, and hospital to hospital. His constitution had
enabled him to struggle through every hardship ; and he was
now in a distant port, waiting only for the sailing of a ship to
return home.

Great caution was necessary in imparting these tidings to
the mother, and even then she was nearly overcome by the
transports of her joy. But how to impart them to Annette,
was a matter of still greater perplexity. Her state of mind had
been so morbid ; she had been subject to such violent changes,
and the cause of her derangement had been of such an incon-
solable and hopeless land, that her friends had always forborne
to tamper with her f eelings. They had never even hinted at the
subject of her griefs, nor encouraged the theme when she ad-
verted to it, but had passed it over in silence, hoping that time
would gradually wear the traces of it from her recollection, or,
at least, would render them less painful. They now felt at a
loss how to undeceive her even in her misery, lest the sudden
recurrence of happiness might confirm the estrangement of her
reason, or might overpower her enfeebled frame. They ven-
tured, however, to probe those wounds which they formerly
did not dare to touch, for they now had the balm to pour into
them. They led the conversation to those topics which they
had hitherto shunned, and endeavoured to ascertain the cur-
rent of her thoughts in those varying moods that had formerly
perplexed them. They found, however, that her mind was
even more affected than they had imagined. All her ideas
were confused and wandering. Her bright and cheerful moods,
which now grew seldomer than ever, were all the effects of
mental delusion. At such times she had no recollection of her
lover's having been in danger, but was only anticipating his
arrival. " When the winter has passed away," said she, " and
the trees put on their blossoms, and the swallow comes back
over the sea, he will return." When she was drooping and
desponding, it was in vain to remind her of what she had said
in her gayer moments, and to assure her that Eugene would
indeed return shortly. She wept on in silence, and appeared
insensible to their words. But at times her agitation became
violent, when she would upbraid herself with having driven
Eugene from his mother, and brought sorrow on her gray
hairs. Her mind admitted but one leading idea at a time,
which nothing could divert or efface ; or if they ever succeeded
in interrupting the current of her fancy, it only became the
more incoherent, and increased the feverishness that preyed

ANNETTE DELARBRE. 223

upon both mind and body. Her friends felt more alarm fof
her than ever, for they feared that her senses were irrecovera-
bly gone, and her constitution completely undermined.

In the mean time, Eugene returned to the village. He was
violently affected, when, the story of Annette was told him.
With bitterness of heart he upbraided his own rashness and
infatuation that had hurried him away from her, and accused
himself as the author of all her woes. His mother would de-
scribe to him all the anguish and remorse of poor Annette ; the
tenderness with which she clung to her, and endeavoured,
even in the midst of her insanity, to console her for the loss
of her son, and the touching expressions of affection that were
mingled with her most incoherent wanderings of thought, until
his feelings would be wound up to agony, and he would entreat
her to desist from the recital. They did not dare as yet to
bring him into Annette's sight; but he was permitted to see
her when she was sleeping. The tears streamed down his sun-
burnt cheeks, as he contemplated the ravages which grief and
malady had made ; and his heart swelled almost to breaking,
as he beheld round her neck the very braid of hair which she
once gave him in token of girlish affection, and which he had
returned to her in anger.

At length the physician that attended her determined to ad-
venture upon an experiment, to take advantage of one of those
cheerful moods when her mind was visited by hope, and to
endeavour to engraft, as it were, the reality upon the delusions
of her fancy. These moods had now become very rare, for
nature was sinking under the continual pressure of her mental
malady, and the principle of reaction was daily growing
weaker. Every effort was tried to bring on a cheerful interval
of the kind. Several of her most favourite companions were
kept continually about her ; they chatted gayly, they laughed,
and sang, and danced; but Annette reclined with languid
frame and hollow eye, and took no part in their gayety. At
length the winter was gone ; the trees put forth their leaves ;
the swallows began to build in the eaves of the house, and
the robin and wren piped all day beneath the window. An-
nette's spirits gradually revived. She began to deck her
person with unusual care ; and bringing forth a basket of arti-
ficial flowers, she went to work to wreathe a bridal chaplet of
white roses. Her companions asked her why she prepared the
chaplet. " What!" said she with a smile, "have you not no-
ticed the trees putting on their wedding dresses of blossoms!

224 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

Has not the swallow flown back over the sea ? Do you not
know that the time has come for Eugene to return ? that he will
be home to-morrow, and that on Sunday we are to be married ? "

Her words were repeated to the physician, and he seized on
them at once. He directed that her idea should be encouraged
and acted upon. Her words were echoed tlirough the house.
Every one talked of the return of Eugene, as a matter of
course ; they congratulated her upon her approaching happi-
ness, and assisted her in her preparations. The next morning,
the same theme was resumed. She was dressed out to receive
her lover. Every bosom fluttered with anxiety. A cabriolet
drove into the village. "Eugene is coming!" was the cry.
She saw him alight at the door, and rushed with a shriek into
his arms.

Her friends trembled for the result of this critical experi-
ment ; but she did not sink under it, for her fancy had pre-
pared her for his return. She was as one in a dream, to whom
a tide of unlooked-for prosperity, that would have overwhelmed
his waking reason, seems but the natural current of circum-
stances. Her conversation, however, showed that her senses
were wandering. There was an absolute forgetfulness of all
past sorrow — a wild and feverish gayety, that at times was
incoherent.

The next morning, she awoke languid and exhausted. All
the occurrences of the preceding day had passed away from
her mind, as though they had been the mere illusions of her
fancy. She rose melancholy and abstracted, and, as she
dressed herself, was heard to sing one of her plaintive ballads.
When she entered the parlour, her eyes were swoln with
weeping. She heard Eugene's voice without, and started. She
passed her hand across her forehead, and stood musing, like
one endeavouring to recall a dream. Eugene entered the
room, and advanced towards her ; she looked at him with an
eager, searching look, murmured some indistinct words, and,
before he could reach her, sank upon the floor.

She relapsed into a wild and unsettled state of mind; but
now that the first shock was over, the physician ordered that
Eugene should keep continually in her sight. Sometimes she
did not know him ; at other times she would talk to him as if
he were going to sea, and would implore him not to part from
her in anger ; and when he was not present, she would speak
of him as if buried in the ocean, and would sit, with clasped
hands, looking upon the ground, the picture of despair.

ANNETTE DELARBRR , 225

As the agitation of her feelings subsided, and her frame re-
covered from the shock which it had received, she became
more placid and coherent. Eugene kept almost continually
near her. He formed the real object round which her scattered
ideas once more gathered, and which linked them once more
with the realities of life. But her changeful disorder now
appeared to take a new turn. She became languid and inert,
and would sit for hours silent, and almost in a state of lethargy.
If roused from this stupor, it seemed as if her mind would
make some attempts to follow up a train of thought, but would
soon become confused. She would regard every one that
approached her with an anxious and inquiring eye, that seemed
continually to disappoint itself. Sometimes, as her lover sat
holding her hand, she would look pensively in his face with-
out saying a word, until his heart was overcome; and after
these transient fits of intellectual exertion, she would sink
again into lethargy.

By degrees, this stupor increased; her mind appeared to
have subsided into a stagnant and almost death-like calm.
For the greater part of the time, her eyes were closed ; her face
almost as fixed and passionless as that of a corpse. She no
longer took any notice of surrounding objects. There was an
awfulness in this tranquillity, that filled her friends with
apprehensions. The physician ordered that she should be kept
perfectly quiet ; or that, if she evinced any agitation, she should
be gently lulled, like a child, by some favourite tune.

She remained in this state for hours, hardly seeming to
breathe, and apparently sinking into the sleep of death. Her
chamber was profoundly still. The attendants moved about it
with noiseless tread ; every thing was communicated by signs
and whispers. Her lover sat by her side, watching her with
painful anxiety, and fearing that every breath which stole from
her pale lips would be the last.

At length she heaved a deep sigh ; and, from some convul-
sive motions, appeared to be troubled in her sleep. Her agita-
tion increased, accompanied by an indistinct moaning. One
of her companions, remembering the physician's instructions,
endeavoured to lull her by singing, in a low voice, a tender
little air, which was a particxilar favourite of Annette's. Prob-
ably it had some connexion in her mind with her own story ;
for every fond girl has some ditty of the kind, linked in her
thoughts with sweet and sad remembrances.

As she sang, the agitation of 4nnette subsided. A streak

226 BRACEliRIDGE HALL.

of faint colour came into her cheeks ; her eyelids became swoln
with rising tears, which trembled there for a moment, and
then, stealing forth, coursed down her pallid cheek. When
the song was ended, she opened her eyes and looked about her,
as one awakening in a strange place.

" Oh, Eugene ! Eugene !" said she, " it seems as if I have had
a long and dismal dream ; what has happened, and what has
been the matter with me?"

The questions were embarrassing ; and before they could be
answered, the physician, who was in the next room, entered.
She took him by the hand, looked up in his face, and made the
same inquiry . He endeavoured to put her off with some evasive
answer;— "No, no!" cried she, " I know I have been ill, and I
have been dreaming strangely. I thought Eugene had left us
— and that he had gone to sea — and that — and that he was
drowned!— But he has been to sea!" added she, earnestly, as
recollection kept flashing upon her, "and he has been wrecked
— and we were all so wretched — and he came home again one
bright morning — and — Oh!" said she, pressing her hand
against her forehead, with a sickly smile, " I see how it is; all
has not been right here: I begin to recollect— but it is all past
now — Eugene is here ! and his mother is happy — and we shall
never — never part again — shall we, Eugene?"

She sunk back in her chair, exhausted ; the tears streamed
down her cheeks. Her companions hovered round her, not
knowing what to make of this sudden dawn of reason. Her
lover sobbed aloud. She opened her eyes again, and looked
upon them with an air of the sweetest acknowledgment. ' ' You
are all so good to me !" said she, faintly.

The physician drew the father aside. "Your daughter's
mind is restored," said he; "she is sensible that she has been
dc ranged; she is growing conscious of the past, and conscious
of the present. All that now remains is to keep her calm and
quiet until her health is re-established, and then let her be mar-
ried in God's name !"

"The wedding took place," continued the good priest, "but
a short time since ; they were here at the last fete during their
honeymoon, and a handsomer and happier couple was not to
be seen as they danced under yonder trees. The young man,
his wife, and mother, now live on a fine farm at Pont 1'Eveque ;
and that model of a ship which you see yonder, with white
flowers wreathed round it, is Annette's offering of thanks to
Our Lady of Grace, for having listened to her prayers, and
protected her lover in the houj^Qf peril."

ANNETTE DBLARBRE. 227

The captain having finished, there was a momentary silence.
The tender-hearted Lady Lillycraft, who knew the story by
heart, had led the way in weeping, and indeed had often begun
to shed tears before they had come to the right place.

The fair Julia was a little flurried at the passage where wed-
ding preparations were mentioned ; but the auditor most affected
was the simple Phoebe Wilkins. She had gradually dropt her
work in her lap, and sat sobbing through the latter part of the
story, until towards the end, when the happy reverse had
nearly produced another scene of hysterics. " Go, take this
case to my room again, child," said Lady Lillycraft, kindly,
" and don't cry so much."

"I won't, an't please your ladyship, if I can help it ; — but I'm
glad they made all up again, and were married."

By the way, the case of this lovelorn damsel begins to make
some talk in the household, especially among certain little
ladies, not far in their teens, of whom she has made confidants.
She is a great favourite with them all, but particularly so since
she has confided to them her love secrets. They enter into her
concerns with all the violent zeal and overwhelming sympathy
with which little boarding-school ladies engage in the politics
of a love affair.

I have noticed them frequently clustering about her in private
conferences, or walking up and down the garden terrace under
my window, listening to some long and dolorous story of her
afflictions ; of which I could now and then distinguish the ever-
ecurring phrases, " says he," and " says she."

I accidentally interrupted one of these little councils of war,
when they were all huddled together under a tree, and seemed
to be earnestly considering some interesting document. The
flutter at my approach showed that there were some secrets
under discussion; and I observed the disconsolate Phoebe
crumpling into her bosom either a love-letter or an old valen-
tine, and brushing away the tears from her cheeks.

The girl is a good girl, of a soft melting nature, and shows
her concern at the cruelty of her lover only in tears and droop-
ing looks; but with the little ladies who have espoused her
cause, it sparkles up into fiery indignation : and I have noticed
on Sunday many a glance darted at the pew of the Tibbets's,
enough even to melt down the silver buttons on old Ready-
Money's jacket.

228 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

TRAVELLING.

A. citizen, for recreation sake,

To see the country would a journey take

Borne dozen mile, or very little more;

Taking his leave with friends two months before,

With drinking healths, and shaking by the hand.

As he had travail'd to some new-found land.

—Doctor Mrrrie-Man, 1609.

THE Squire has lately received another shock in the saddle,
and been almost unseated by his marplot neighbour, the inde-
fatigable Mr. Faddy, who rides his jog-trot hobby with equal
zeal ; and is so bent upon improving and reforming the neigh-
bourhood, that the Squire thinks, in a little while, it will be
scarce worth living in. The enormity that has thus discom-
posed my worthy host, is an attempt of the manufacturer to
have a line of coaches established, that shall diverge from the
old route, and pass through the neighbouring village.

I believe I have mentioned that the Hall is situated in a
retired part of the country, at a distance from any great coach-
road ; insomuch that the arrival of a traveller is apt to make
every one look out of the window, and to cause some talk
among the ale-drinkers at the little inn. I was at a loss, there-
fore, to account for the Squire's indignation at a measure
apparently fraught with convenience and advantage, until I
found that the conveniences of travelling were among his
greatest grievances.

In fact, he rails against stage-coaches, post-chaises, and turn-
pike-roads, as serious causes of the corruption of English rural
manners. They have given facilities, he says, to every hum-
drum citizen to trundle his family about the kingdom, and
j have sent the follies and fashions of town, whirling, in coach-
loads, to the remotest parts of the island. The whole country,
he says, is traversed by these flying cargoes •, every by-road is
explored by enterprising tourists from Cheapside and the
Poultry, and every gentleman's park and lawns invaded by
cockney sketchers of both sexes, with portable chairs and port-
folios for drawing.

He laments over this, as destroying the charm of privacy,
and interrupting the quiet of country life ; but more especially
as affecting the simplicity of the peasantry, and filling their
heads with half -city notions. A great coach-inn, he says, is
enough to ruin the manners of a whole village. It creates a

TRAVELLING. 229

horde of sots and idlers, makes gapers and gazers and news-
mongers of the common people, and knowing jockeys of the
country bumpkins.

The Squire has something of the old feudal f eeling. He looks
back with regret to the '* good old times" when journeys were
only made on horseback, and the extraordinary difficulties of.
travelling, owing to bad roads, bad accommodations, and high-
way robbers, seemed to separate each village and hamlet from
the rest of the world. The lord of the manor was then a kind
of monarch in the little realm around him. He held his court
in his paternal hall, and was looked up to with almost as much
loyalty and deference as the king himself. Every neighbour-
hood was a little world within itself, having its local manners
and customs, its local history and local opinions. The inhabi-
tants were fonder of their homes, and thought less of wandering.
It was looked upon as an expedition to travel out of sight of the
parish steeple ; and a man that had been to London was a vil-
lage oracle for the rest of his life.

What a difference between the mode of travelling in those
days and at present ! At that time, when a gentleman went on
a distant visit, he sallied forth like a knight-errant on an enter-
prise, and every family excursion was a pageant. How splendid
and fanciful must one of those domestic cavalcades have been,
where the beautiful dames were mounted on palfreys magnifi-
cently caparisoned, with embroidered harness, all tinkling with
silver bells, attended by cavaliers richly attired on prancing
steeds, and followed by pages and serving-men, as we see them
represented in old tapestry! The gentry, as they travelled
about in those days, were like moving pictures. They delighted
the eyes and awakened the admiration of the common people,
and passed before them like superior beings ; and, indeed, they
were so ; there was a hardy and healthful exercise connected
with this equestrian style that made them generous and noble.

In bis fondness for the old style of travelling, the Squire
makes most of his journeys on horseback, though he laments
the modern deficiency of incident on the road, from the want
of fellow- wayfarers, and the rapidity with which every one else
is whirled along in coaches and post-chaises. In the ' ' good old
times," on the contrary, a cavalier jogged on through bog and
mire, from town to town and hamlet to hamlet, conversing
with friars and franklins, and all other chance companions of
the road ; beguiling the way with travellers' tales, which then
were truly wonderful, for every thing beyond one's neighbour-

230 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

hood was full of marvel and romance; stopping at night at
some "hostel," where the bush over the door proclaimed good
wine, or a pretty hostess made bad wine palatable ; meeting at
supper with travellers, or listening to the song or merry story
of the host, who was generally a boon companion, and presided
at his own board; for, according to old Tusser's " Innholder's
Posie,"

" At meales my friend who vitleth here

And sitteth with his host,
Shall both be sure of better cheere,
And 'scape with lesser cost."

The Squire is fond, too, of stopping at those inns which may
be met with here and there in ancient houses of wood and
plaster, or calimanco houses, as they are called by antiquaries,
with deep porches, diamond-paned bow-windows, pannelled
rooms, and great fire-places. He will prefer them to more spa-
cious and modern inns, and would cheerf ully put up with bad
cheer and bad accommodations in the gratification of his hu-
mour. They give him, he says, the feelings of old times, inso-
much that he almost expects in the dusk of the evening to see
some party of weary travellers ride up to the door with plumes
and mantles, trunk-hose, wide boots, and long rapiers.

The good Squire's remarks brought to mind a visit that I
once paid to the Tabbard Inn, famous for being the place of
assemblage from whence Chaucer's pilgrims set forth for Can-
terbury. It is in the borough of Southwark, not far from Lon-
don Bridge, and bears, at present, the name of "the Talbot."
It has sadly declined in dignity since the days of Chaucer,
being a mere rendezvous and packing-place of the great wagons
that travel into Kent. The court-yard, which was anciently the
mustering-place of the pilgrims previous to their departure,
was now lumbered with huge wagons. Crates, boxes, ham-
pers, and baskets, containing the good things of town and
country, were piled about them ; while, among the straw and
litter, the motherly hens scratched and clucked, with their
hungry broods at their heels. Instead of Chaucer's motley and
splendid throng, I only saw a group of wagoners and stable-
boys enjoying a circulating pot of ale ; while a long-bodied dog
sat by, with head on one side, ear cocked up, and wistful gaze,
as if waiting for his turn at the tankard.

Notwithstanding this grievous declension, however, I was
gratified at perceiving that the present occupants were not un-
conscious of the poetical renown of their mansion. An inscrip-

TEA YELLING. 231

tion over the gateway proclaimed it to be the inn where Chau-
cer's pilgrims slept on the night previous to their departure ;
and at the bottom of the yard was a magnificent sign represent-
ing them in the act of sallying forth. I was pleased, too, at
noticing that though the present inn was comparatively mod-
ern, yet the form of the old inn was preserved. There were
galleries round the yard, as in old tunes, on which opened the
chambers of the guests. To these ancient inns have antiqua-
ries ascribed the present forms of our theatres. Plays were
originally acted in inn-yards. The guests lolled over the gal-
leries, which answered to our modern dress-circle ; the critical
mob clustered in the yard, instead of the pit ; and the groups
gazing from the garret- windows were no bad representatives of
the gods of the shilling gallery. When, therefore, the drama
grew important enough to have a house of its own, the archi-
tects took a hint for its construction from the yard of the
ancient "hostel."

I was so well pleased at finding these remembrances of
Chaucer and his poem, that I ordered my dinner in the little
parlour of the Talbot. Whilst it was preparing, I sat at the
window musing and gazing into the court-yard, and conjuring
up recollections of the scenes depicted in such lovely colours by
the poet, until, by degrees, boxes, bales and hampers, boys,
wagoners and dogs, faded from sight, and my fancy peopled
the place with the motley throng of Canterbury pilgrims. The
galleries once more swarmed with idle gazers, in the rich
dresses of Chaucer's time, and the whole cavalcade seemed to
pass before me. There was the stately knight on sober steed,
who had ridden in Christendom and heathenesse, and had
"foughten for our faith at Tramissene ;"— and his son, the
young squire, a lover, and a lusty bachelor, with curled locks
and gay embroidery; a bold rider, a dancer, and a writer of
verses, singing and fluting all day long, and "fresh as the
month of May;" — and his "knot-headed" yeoman; a bold
forester, in green, with horn, and baudrick, and dagger, a
mighty bow in hand, and a sheaf of peacock arrows shining
beneath his belt ; — and the coy, smiling, simple nun, with her
gray eyes, her small red mouth, and fair forehead, her dainty
person clad in featly cloak and " 'ypinched wimple," her choral
beads about her arm, her golden brooch with a love motto, and
her pretty oath by Saint Eloy ; — and the merchant, solemn in
speech and high on horse, with forked beard and " Flaundrish
bever hat;" — and the lusty monk, "full fat and in good point,"

232 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

with berry brown palfrey, his hood fastened with gold pin,
wrought with a love-knot, his bald head shining like glass, and
bis face glistening as though it had been anointed; and the
lean, logical, sententious clerk of Oxenforde, upon his half-
gtarved, scholar-like horse ; — and the bowsing sompnour, with
fiery cherub face, all knobbed with pimples, an eater of garlic
and onions, and drinker of "strong wine, red as blood," that
carried a cake for a buckler, and babbled Latin in his cups ; of
whose brimstone visage "children were sore aferd;" — and the
buxom wife of Bath, the widow of five husbands, upon her
ambling nag, with her hat broad as a buckler, her red stock-
ings and sharp spurs ; — and the slender, choleric reeve of Nor-
folk, bestriding his good gray stot; with close-shaven beard.
his hair cropped round his ears, long, lean, calfless legs, and a
rusty blade by his side ; — and the jolly Limitour, with lisping
tongue and twinkling eye, well-beloved franklins and house-
wives, a great promoter of marriages among young women,
known at the taverns in every town, and by every "hosteler
and gay tapstere." In short, before I was roused from my
reverie by the less poetical but more substantial apparition of a
smoking beef -steak, I had seen the whole cavalcade issue forth
from the hostel-gate, with the brawny, double-jointed, red-
haired miller, playing the bagpipes before them, and the
ancient host of the Tabbard giving them his farewell God-send
to Canterbury.

When I told the Squire of the existence of this legitimate
descendant of the ancient Tabbard Inn, his eyes absolutely
glistened with delight. He determined to hunt it up the very
first time he visited London, and to eat a dinner there, and
drink a cup of mine host's best wine in memory of old Chaucer.
The general, who happened to be present, immediately begged
to be of the party ; for he liked to encourage these long-estab-
lished houses, as they are apt to have choice old wines.

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 233

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS.

Farewell rewards and fairies,

Good housewives now may say;
For now fowle sluts in dairies

Do fare as well as they;
And though they sweepe their hearths no lesse

Than maids were wont to doo,
Yet who of late for cleanlinesse

Finds sixpence in her shooe?— BISHOP CORBET.

I HAVE mentioned the Squire's fondness for the marvellous,
and his predilection for legends and romances. His library
contains a curious collection of old works of this kind, which
bear evident marks of having been much read. In his great
love for all that is antiquated, he cherishes popular supersti-
tions, and listens, with very grave attention, to every tale,
however strange ; so that, through his countenance, the house-
hold, and, indeed, the whole neighbourhood, is well stocked
with wonderful stories; and if ever a doubt is expressed
of any one of them, the narrator will generally observe, that
" the Squire thinks there's something in it."

The Hall of course comes in for its share, the common people
having always a propensity to furnish a great superannuated
building of the kind with supernatural inhabitants. The
gloomy galleries of such old family mansions; the stately
chambers, adorned with grotesque carvings and faded paint-
ings ; the sounds that vaguely echo about them ; the moaning
of the wind ; the cries of rooks and ravens from the trees and
chimney-tops ; all produce a state of mind f ovourable to super-
stitious fancies.

In one chamber of the Hall, just opposite a door which opens
upon a dusky passage, there is a full-length portrait of a war-
rior in armour ; when, on suddenly turning into the passage, I
have caught a sight of the portrait, thrown into strong relief
by the dark pannelling against which it hangs, I have more
than once been startled, as though it were a figure advancing
towards me.

To superstitious minds, therefore, predisposed by the strange
and melancholy stories that are connected with family paint-
ings, it needs >. ut little stretch of fancy, on a moonlight night,
or by the flickering light of a candle, to set the old pictures on

234 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

the walls in motion, sweeping in their robes and trains about
the galleries.

To tell the truth, the Squire confesses that he used to take a
pleasure in his younger days in setting marvellous stories
afloat, and connecting them with the lonely and peculiar
places of the neighbourhood. Whenever he read any legend
of a striking nature, he endeavoured to transplant it, and give'1
it a local habitation among the scenes of his boyhood. Many
of these stories took root, and he says he is often amused with
the odd shapes in which they will come back to him in some
old woman's narrative, after they have been circulating for
years among the peasantry, and undergoing rustic additions
and amendments. Among these may doubtless be numbered
that of the crusader's ghost, which I have mentioned in the
account of my Christmas visit; and another about the hard-
riding Squire of yore ; the family Nimrod ; who is sometimes
heard in stormy winter nights, galloping, with hound and horn,
over a wild moor a few miles distant from the Hall. This I
apprehend to have had its origin in the famous story of the
wild huntsman, the favourite goblin in German tales; though,
by-the-by, as I was talking on the subject with Master Simon
the other evening in the dark avenue, he hinted that he had
himself once or twice heard odd sounds at night, very like a
pack of hounds in cry; and that once, as he was returning
rather late from a hunting dinner, he had seen a strange figure
galloping along this same moor; but as he was riding rather
fast at the time, and in a hurry to get home, he did not stop to
ascertain what it was.

Popular superstitions are fast fading away in England, owing
to the general diffusion of knowledge, and the bustling inter-
course kept up throughout the country ; still they have their
strong-holds and lingering places, and a retired neighbourhood
like this is apt to be one of them. The parson tells me that he
meets with many traditional beliefs and notions among the
common people, which he has been able to draw from them in
the course of familiar conversation, though they are rather shy
of avowing them to strangers, and particularly to "the gentry,"
who are apt to laugh at them. He says there are several of his
old parishioners who remember when the village had its bar-
guest, or bar-ghost — a spirit supposed to belong to a town or
village, and to predict any impending misfortune by midnight
shrieks and wailings. The last time it was heard was just
before the death of Mr. Bracebridge's father, who was much

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. . 235

beloved throughout the neighbourhood ; though there are not
wanting some obstinate unbelievers, who insisted that it was
nothing but the howling of a watch-dog. I have been greatly
delighted, however, at meeting with some traces of my old
favourite, Eobin Qoodfellow, though under a different appella-
tion from any of those by which I have heretofore heard him
called. The parson assures me that many of the peasantry
believe in household goblins, called Dubbies, which live about
particular farms and houses, in the same way that Robin Good-
fellow did of old. Sometimes they haunt the barns and out-
houses, and now and then will assist the farmer wonderfully,
by getting in all his hay or corn in a single night. In general,
however, they prefer to live within doors, and are fond of
keeping about the great hearths, and basking, at night, after
the family have gone to bed, by the glowing embers. When
put in particular good-humour by the warmth of their lodg-
ings, and the tidiness of the house-maids, they will overcome
their natural laziness, and do a vast deal of household work
before morning; churning the cream, brewing the beer, or
spinning all the good dame's flax. All this is precisely the
conduct of Robin Goodfellow, described so charmingly by
Milton:

" Tells how the drudging goblin sweat
To earn his cream-bowl duly set,
When in one night, ere glimpse of morn,
His shadowy flail had thresh'd the corn
That ten day-labourers could not end;
Then lays him down the lubber-fiend,
And, stretch 'd out all the chimney's length,
Basks at the fire his hairy strength,
And crop-full, out of door he flings
Ere the first cock his matin rings."

But beside these household Dubbies, there are others of a
more gloomy and unsocial nature, that keep about lonely barns
at a distance from any dwelling-house, or about ruins and old
bridges. These are full of mischievous and often malignant
tricks, and are fond of play ing pranks upon benighted travellers.
There is a story, among the old people, of one that haunted a
ruined mill, just by a bridge that crosses a small stream ; how
that, late one night, as a traveller was passing on horseback,
the Dubbie jumped up behind him, and grasped him so close
round the body that he had no power to help himself, but ex-
pected to be squeezed to death : luckily his heels were loose,
with which he plied the sides of his steed, and was carried,

236 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

with the wonderful instinct of a traveller's horse, straight to
the village inn. Had the inn been at any greater distance,
there is no doubt but he would have been strangled to death ;
as it was, the good people were a long time in bringing him to
his senses, and it was remarked that the first sign he showed
of returning consciousness was to call for a bottom of brandy.

These mischievous Dubbies bear much resemblance in their
natures and habits to those sprites which Heywood, in his
Heirarchie, calls pugs or hobgoblins :

" Their dwellings be

In corners of old houses least frequented

Or beneath stacks of wood, and these con vented,

Make fearfull noise in butteries and in dairies;

Robin Qoodfellow some, some call them fairies.

In solitarie rooms these uprores Jceep,

And beate at doores, to wake men from their slepe,

Seeming to force lockes, be they nere so strong,

And keeping Christmassy gambols all night long.

Pots, glasses, trenchers, dishes, pannes and kettles.

They will make dance about the shelves and settles,

As if about the kitchen tost and cast,

Tet in the morning nothing found misplac't.

Others such houses to their use hare fitted.

In which base murthers have been once committed.

Some have their fearful habitations taken

In desolate houses, ruin'd and forsaken."

In the account of our unfortunate hawking expedition, I
mentioned an instance of one of these sprites, supposed to
haunt the ruined grange that stands in a lonely meadow, and
has a remarkable echo. The parson informs me, also, that the
belief was once very prevalent, that a household Dubbie kept
about the old farm-house of the Tibbete. It has long been
traditional, he says, that one of these good-natured goblins is
attached to the Tibbete family, and came with them when they
moved into this part of the country ; for it is one of the pecu-
liarities of these household sprites, that they attach themselves
to the fortunes of certain families, and follow them in all their
removals.

There is a large old-fashioned fire-place in the farm-house,
which affords fine quarters for a chimney-corner sprite that
likes to be warm; especially as Ready -Money Jack keeps up
rousing fires in the winter-time. The old people of the village
recollect many stories about this goblin, that were current in
their young days. It was thought to have brought good luck
to the house, and to be the reason why the Tibbete were always
beforehand in the world, and why their farm was always in

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 237

better order, their hay got in sooner, and their corn better
stacked, than that of their neighbours. The present Mrs. Tib-
bets, at the time of her courtship, had a number of these stories
told her by the country gossips; and when married, was a
little fearful about living in a house where such a hobgoblin
was said to haunt : Jack, however, who has always treated this
story with great contempt, assured her that there was no spirit
kept about his house that he could not at any time lay in the
Eed Sea with one flourish of his cudgel. Still his wife has
never got completely over her notions on the subject, but has a
horseshoe nailed on the threshold, and keeps a branch of raun-
try, or mountain ash, with its red berries, suspended from one
of the great beams in the parlour — a sure protection from all
evil spirits.

These stories, however, as I before observed, are fast fading
away, and in another generation or two will probably be com-
pletely forgotten. There is something, however, about these
rural superstitions, that is extremely pleasing to the imagina-
tion; particularly those which relate to the good-humoured
race of household demons, and indeed to the whole fairy my-
thology. The English have given an inexplicable charm to
these superstitions, by the manner in which they have asso-
ciated them with whatever is most homefelt and delightful in
nature. I do not know a more fascinating race of beings than
these little fabled people, that haunted the southern sides of
hills and mountains, lurked in flowers and about fountain-heads,
glided through key-holes into ancient halls, watched over
farm-houses and dairies, danced on the green by summer moon-
light, and on the kitchen-hearth in winter. They seem to
accord with the nature of English housekeeping and English
scenery. I always have them in mind, when I see a fine old
English mansion, with its wide hall and spacious kitchen ; or a
venerable farm-house, in which there is so much fireside com-
fort and good housewifery. There was something of national
character in their love of order and cleanliness ; in the vigilance
with which they watched over the economy of the kitchen, and
the functions of the servants; munificently rewarding, with
silver sixpence in shoe, the tidy housemaid, but venting their
direful wrath, in midnight bobs and pinches, upon the sluttish
dairymaid. I think I can trace the good effects of this ancient
fairy sway over household concerns, in the care that prevails
to the present day among English housemaids, to put their
kitchens in order before they go to bed.

238 BRACEERIDOE HALL.

I have said, too, that these fairy superstitions seemed to me
to accord with the nature of English scenery. They suit these
small landscapes, which are divided by honeysuckled hedges
into sheltered fields and meadows, where the grass is mingled
with daisies, buttercups, and harebells. When I first found
myself among English scenery, I was continually reminded of
the sweet past HIM! images which distinguish their fairy my-
thology ; and when for the first time a circle in the grass was
pointed out to me as one of the rings where they were formerly
supposed to have held their moonlight revels, it seemed for a
moment as if fairy-land were no longer a fable. Brown, in his
Britannia's Pastorals, gives a picture of the kind of scenery to
which I allude:

" A pleasant mead

Where fairies often did their measures tread ;
Whjch in the meadows make such circles green,
As if with garlands it had crowned been.
Within one of these rounds was to be seen
A hillock rise, where oft the fairy queen
At twilight sat."

And there is another picture of the same, in a poem ascribed to
Ben Jonson.

" By wells and rills in meadows green,

We nightly dance our heyday guise,
And to our fairy king and queen

We chant our moonlight minstrelsies."

Indeed, it seems to me, that the older British poets, with that
true feeling for nature which distinguishes them, have closely
adhered to the simple and familiar imagery which they found
in these popular superstitions ; and have thus given to their
fairy mythology those continual allusions to the farm-house
and the dairy, the green meadow and the fountain-head, that
fill our minds with the delightful associations of rural life. I
is curious to observe how the most beautiful fictions have their
origin among the rude and ignorant. There is an indescribable
charm about the illusions with which Chimerical ignorance once
clothed every subject. These twilight views of nature are
often more captivating than any which are revealed by the
rays of enlightened philosophy. The most accomplished and
poetical minds, therefore, have been fain to search back into
these accidental conceptions of what are termed barbarous ages,
and to draw from them their finest imagery and machinery.
If we look through our most admired poets, we shall find that
their minds have been impregnated by these popular fancies,

POPULAR SUPERSTITIONS. 239

and that those have succceeded best wno have adhered closest to
the simplicity of their rustic originals. Such is the case with
Shakspeare in his Midsummer-Night's Dream, which so minutely
describes the employments and amusements of fairies, and em-
bodies all the notions concerning them which were current
among the vulgar. It is thus that poetry in England has
echoed back every rustic note, softened into perfect melody ; it
is thus that it has spread its charms over every-day life, dis-
placing nothing, taking things as it found them, but tinting
them up with its own magical hues, until every green hill and
fountain-head, every fresh meadow, nay, every humble flower,
is full of song and story.

I am dwelling too long, perhaps, upon a threadbare subject;
yet it brings up with it a thousand delicious recollections of
those happy days of childhood, when the imperfect knowledge
I have since obtained had not yet dawned upon my mind, and
when a fairy tale was true history to me. I have often been
so transported by the pleasure of these recollections, as almost
to wish that I had been born in the days when the fictions of
poetry were believed. Even now I cannot look upon those
fanciful creations of ignorance and credulity, without a lurk-
ing regret that they have all passed away. The experience of
my early days tells me, that they were sources of exquisite de-
light ; and I sometimes question whether the naturalist who
can dissect the flowers of the field, receives half the pleasure
from contemplating them, that he did who considered them
the abode of elves and fairies. I feel convinced that the true
interests and solid happiness of man are promoted by the
advancement of truth ; yet I cannot but mourn over the plea-
sant errors which it has trampled down in its progress. The
fauns and sylphs, the household sprite, the moonlight revel,
Oberon, Queen Mab, and the delicious realms of fairy -land, all
vanish before the light of true philosophy ; but who does not
sometimes turn with distaste from the cold realities of mon>
ing, and seek to recall the sweet visions of the night?

240 BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

THE CULPRIT.

From fire, from water, and all things amiss,
Deliver the house of an honest justice.— The Widow.

THE serenity of the Hall has been suddenly interrupted by a
very important occurrence. In the course of this morning a
posse of villagers was seen trooping up the avenue, with boys
shouting in advance. As it drew near, we perceived Ready-
Money Jack Tibbets striding along, wielding his cudgel in one
hand, and with the other grasping the collar of a tall fellow,
whom, on still nearer approach, we recognized for the redoubt-
able gipsy hero, Starlight Tom. He was now, however, com-
pletely cowed and crestfallen, and his courage seemed to have
quailed in the iron gripe of the lion-hearted Jack.

The whole gang of gipsy women and children came dragging
in the rear ; some in tears, others making a violent clamour
about the ears of old Ready-Money, who, however, trudged on
in silence with his prey, heeding their abuse as little as a hawk
that has pounced upon a barn-door hero regards the outcries
and cackh'ngs of his whole feathered seraglio.

He had passed through the village on his way to the Hall,
and of course had made a great sensation in that most excita-
ble place, where every event is a matter of gaze and gossip.
The report flew like wildfire, that Starlight Tom was in custody.
The ale-drinkers forthwith abandoned the tap-room ; Slingsby's
school broke loose, and master and boys swelled the tide that
came rolling at the heels of old Ready-Money and his captive.

The uproar increased, as they approached the Hall; it
aroused the whole gan-ison of dogs, and the crew of hangers-
on. The great mastiff barked from the dog-house; the stag-
hound, and the grayhound, and the spaniel, issued barking
from the hall-door, and my Lady Lillycraft's little dogs
ramped and barked from the parlour window. I remarked,
however, that the gipsy dogs made no reply to all these
menaces and insults, but crept close to the gang, looking round
with a guilty, poaching air, and now and then glancing up a
dubious eye to their owners; which shows that the moral
dignity, even of dogs, may be ruined by bad company !

When the throng reached the front of the house, they were
brought to a halt by a kind of advanced guard, composed of
old Christy, the gamekeeper, and two or three servants of the

CULPRIT. 241

house, who had been brought out by the noise. The common
herd of the village fell back with respect ; the boys were driven
back by Christy and his compeers ; while Ready-Money Jack
maintained his ground and his hold of the prisoner, and was
surrounded by the tailor, the schoolmaster, and several other
dignitaries of the village, and by the clamorous brood of
gipsies, who were neither to be silenced nor intimidated.

By this time the whole household were brought to the doors
and windows, and the Squire to the portal. An audience was
demanded by Ready-Money Jack, who had detected the prisoner
in the very act of sheep-stealing on his domains, and had borne
him off to be examined before the Squire, who is in the com-
mission of the peace.

A kind of tribunal was immediately held in the servants'
ball, a large chamber, with a stone floor, and a long table in
the centre, at one end of which, just under an enormous clock,
was placed the Squire's chair of justice, while Master Simon
took his place at the table as clerk of the court. An attempt
had been made by old Christy to keep out the gipsy gang, but
in vain, and they, with the village worthies, and the house-
hold, half filled the hall. The old housekeeper and the butler
were in a panic at this dangerous irruption. They hurried
away all the valuable things and portable articles that were at
hand, and even kept a dragon watch on the gipsies, lest they
should carry off the house clock, or the deal table.

Old Christy, and his faithful coadjutor the gamekeeper, acted
as constables to guard the prisoner, triumphing in having at
last got this terrible offender in their clutches. Indeed, I am
inclined to think the old man bore some peevish recollection of
having been handled rather roughly by the gipsy, in the chance-
medley affair of May -day.

Silence was now commanded by Master Simon; but it was
difficult to be enforced, in such a motley assemblage. There
was a continual snarling and yelping of dogs, and, as fast as it
was quelled in one corner, it broke out in another. The poor
gipsy curs, who, like errant thieves, could not hold up their
heads in an honest house, were worried and insulted by the
gentlemen dogs of the establishment, without offering to make
resistance ; the very curs of my Lady Lillycraf t bullied them
with impunity.

The examination was conducted with great mildness and in-
dulgence by the Squire, partly from the kindness of his nature,
and partly, I suspect, because his heart yearned towards the

242 SnACESRTDOE HALL

culprit, who had found great favour in his eyes, as I have
already observed, from the skill he had at various times dis-
played in archery, morris-dancing, and other obsolete accom-
plishments. Proofs, however, were too strong. Ready -Money
Jack told his story in a straight-forward, independent way,
nothing daunted by the presence in which he found himself.
He had suffered from various depredations on his sheepfold
and poultry-yard, and had at length kept watch, and caught
the delinquent in the very act of making off with a sheep on
his shoulders.

Tibbets was repeatedly interrupted, in the course of his tes-
timony, by the culprit's mother, a furious old beldame, with
an insufferable tongue, and who, in fact, was several times
kept, with some difficulty, from flying at him tooth and nail.
The wife, too, of the prisoner, whom I am told he does not beat
above half-a-dozen times a week, completely interested Lady
Lillycraft in her husband's behalf, by her tears and supplica-
tions ; and several of the other gipsy women were awakening
strong sympathy among the young girls and maid-servants in
the back-ground. The pretty, black-eyed gipsy girl whom I
have mentioned on a former occasion as the sibyl that read the
fortunes of the general, endeavoured to wheedle that doughty
warrior into their interests, and even made some approaches
to her old acquaintance, Master Simon; but was repelled by
the latter with all the dignity of office, having assumed a look
of gravity and importance suitable to the occasion.

I was a little surprised, at first, to find honest Slingsby, the
schoolmaster, rather opposed to his old crony Tibbets, and
coming forward as a kind of advocate for the accused. It
Beems that he had taken compassion on the forlorn fortunes of
Starlight Tom, and had been trying his eloquence in his favour
the whole way from the village, but without effect. During
the examination of Ready-Money Jack, Slingsby had stood like
"dejected Pity at his side," seeking every now and then, by a
soft word, to soothe any exacerbation of his ire, or to qualify
any harsh expression. He now ventured to make a few obser-
vations to the Squire, in palliation of the delinquent's offence;
but poor Slingsby spoke more from the heart than the head,
and was evidently actuated merely by a general sympathy for
every poor devil in trouble, and a liberal toleration for all kinds
of vagabond existence.

The ladies, too, large and small, with the kind-heartedness
of the sex, were zealous on the side of mercy, and interceded

THE CULPRIT. 243

strenuously with the Squire ; insomuch that the prisoner, find-
ing himself unexpectedly surrounded by active friends, once
more reared his crest, and seemed disposed, for a time, to put
on the air of injured innocence. The Squire, however, with all
his benevolence of heart, and his lurking weakness towards the
prisoner, was too conscientious to swerve from the strict path
of justice. There was abundant concurring testimony that
made the proof of guilt incontrovertible, and Starlight Tom's
mittimus was made out accordingly.

The sympathy of the ladies was now greater than ever ; they
even made some attempts to mollify the ire of Ready-Money
Jack ; but that sturdy potentate had been too much incensed
by the repeated incursions that had been made into his terri-
tories by the predatory band of Starlight Tom, and he was
resolved, he said, to drive the "varment reptiles" out of the
neighbourhood. To avoid all further importunities, as soon as
the mittimus was made out, he girded up his loins, and strode
back to his seat of empire, accompanied by his interceding
friend, Slingsby, and followed by a detachment of the gipsy
gang, who hung on his rear, assailing him with mingled pray-
ers and execrations.

The question now was, how to dispose of the prisoner — a
matter of great moment in this peaceful establishment, where
so formidable a character as Starlight Tom was like a hawk en-
trapped in a dove-cote. As the hubbub and examination had
occupied a considerable time, it was too late in the day to send
bim to the county prison, and that of the village was sadly out
of repair, from long want of occupation. Old Christy, who
took great interest in the affair, proposed that the culprit
should be committed for the night to an upper loft of a kind of
tower in one of the outhouses, where he and the gamekeeper
would mount guard. After much deliberation, this measure
was adopted; the premises in question were examined and
made secure, and Christy and his trusty ally, the one armed
with a fowling-piece, the other with an ancient blunderbuss,
turned out as sentries to keep watch over this donjon-keep.

Such is the momentous affair that has just taken place, and
it is an event of too great moment in this quiet little world, not
to turn it completely topsy-turvy. Labour is at a stand : the
house has been a scene of confusion the whole evening. It has
been beleagured by gipsy women, with their children on their
backs, wailing and lamenting ; while the old virago of a mother
has cruised up and down the lawn in front, shaking her head,

244 ERACEBRTVGK BALL.

and muttering to herself, or now and then breaking into a
paroxysm of rage, brandishing her fist at the Hall, and de-
nouncing ill-luck upon Ready-Money Jack, and even upon the
Squire himself.

Lady Lillycraft has given repeated audiences to the culprit's
weeping wife, at the Hall door; and the servant maids have
stolen out, to confer with the gipsy women under the trees.
As to the.little ladies of the family, they are all outrageous on
Ready-Mfhiey Jack, whom they look upon in the light of a ty-
rannical giant of fairy tale. Phoebe Wilkins, contrary to her
usual nature, is the only one that is pitiless in the affair. She
thinks Mr. Tibbets quite in the right; and thinks the gipsies
deserve to be punished severely, for meddling with the sheep
of the Tibbets's.

In the mean time, the females of the family evinced all the
provident kindness of the sex, ever ready to soothe and succour
the distressed, right or wrong. Lady Lillycraft has had a
mattress taken to the outhouse, and comforts and delicacies of
all kinds have been taken to the prisoner ; even the little girls
have sent their cakes and sweetmeats; so that, I'll warrant,
the vagabond has never fared so well in his life before. Old
Christy, it is true, looks upon every thing with a wary eye;
struts about with his blunderbuss with the air of a veteran
campaigner, and will hardly allow himself to be spoken to.
The gipsy women dare not come within gun-shot, and every
tatterdemalion of a boy has been frightened from the park.
The old fellow is determined to lodge Starlight Tom in prison
with his own hands; and hopes, he says, to see one of the
poaching crew made an example of.

I doubt, after all, whether the worthy Squire is not the great-
est sufferer in the whole affair. His honourable sense of duty
obliges him to be rigid, but the overflowing kindness of his
nature makes this a grievous trial to him.

He is not accustomed to have such demands upon his justice,
in his truly patriarchal domain ; and it wounds his benevolent
spirit, that while prosperity and happiness are flowing in thus
bounteously upon him, he should have to inflict misery upon a
fellow-being.

He has been troubled and cast down tne whole evening; took
leave of the family, on going to bed, with a sigh, instead of his
usual hearty and affectionate tone ; and will, in all probability,
have a far more sleepless night than his prisoner. Indeed, this
unlucky affair has cast a damp upon the whole household, as

FAMILY MISFORTUNES. 245

there appears to be an universal opinion that the unlucky cul-
prit will come to the gallows.

Morning. — The clouds of last evening are all blown over. A
load has been taken from the Squire's heart, and every face is
once more in smiles. The gamekeeper made his appearance at
an early hour, completely shamefaced and crestfallen. Star-
light Tom had made his escape in the night ; how he had got
out of the loft, no one could tell : the Devil, they think, must
have assisted him. Old Christy was so mortified that he would
not show his face, but had shut himself up in his stronghold at
the dog-kennel, and would not be spoken with. What has par-
ticularly relieved the Squire, is, that there is very little likeli-
hood of the culprit's being retaken, having gone off on one of
the old gentleman's best hunters.

FAMILY MTSFOETUNES.

The night has been unruly; where we lay,
The chimneys were blown down. — Macbeth.

WE have for a day or two past had a flow of unruly weather,
which has intruded itself into this fair and flowery month,
and for a time has quite marred the beauty of the landscape.
Last night, the storm attained its crisis ; the rain beat hi tor-
rents against the casements, and the wind piped and blustered
about the old Hall with quite a wintry vehemence. The morn-
ing, however, dawned clear and serene ; the f ace4of the heavens
seemed as if newly washed, and the sun shone with a brightness
that was undimmed by a single vapour. Nothing over-head
gave traces of the recent storm ; but on looking from my win-
dow, I beheld sad ravage among the shrubs and flowers ; the
garden-walks had formed the channels for little torrents ; trees
were lopped of their branches ; and a small silver stream that
wound through the park, and ran at the bottom of the lawn,
had swelled into a turbid yellow sheet of water.

In an establishment like this, where the mansion is vast,
ancient, and somewhat afflicted with the infirmities of age, and
where there are numerous and extensive dependencies, a storm
is an event of a very grave nature, and brings in its train a
multiplicity of cares and disasters.

While the Squire was taking his breakfast in the great hall.

246 BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

he was continually interrupted by some bearer of ill-tidings
from some part or other of his domains ; he appeared to me like
the commander of a besieged city, after some grand assault,
receiving at his headquarters reports of damages sustained in
the various quarters of the place. At one time the house-
keeper brought him intelligence of a chimney blown down, and
a desperate leak sprung in the roof over the picture gallery,
which threatened to obliterate a whole generation of his an-
cestors. Then the steward came in with a doleful story of
the mischief done in the woodlands ; while the gamekeeper be-
moaned the loss of one of his finest bucks, whose bloated car-
cass was seen floating along the swoln current of the river.

When the Squire issued forth, he was accosted, before the
door, by the old, paralytic gardener, with a face full of trouble,
reporting, as I supposed, the devastation of his flower-beds, and
the destruction of his wall-fruit. I remarked, however, that
his intelligence caused a peculiar expression of concern, not
only with the Squire and Master Simon, but with the fair Julia
and Lady Lillycraft, who happened to be present. From a
few words which reached my ear, I found there was some tale
of domestic calamity in the case, and that some unfortunate
family had been rendered houseless by the storm. Many ejacu-
lations of pity broke from the ladies ; I heard the expressions of
"poor, helpless beings," and "unfortunate little creatures,"
several times repeated ; to which the old gardener replied by
very melancholy shakes of the head.

I felt so interested, that I could not help calling to the gardener,
as he was retiring, and asking what unfortunate family it was
that had suffered so severely ? The old man touched his hat,
and gazed at me for an instant, as if hardly comprehending my
question. " Family 1" replied he, "there be no family in the
case, your honour; but here have been sad mischief done in
the rookery I"

I hdd noticed, the day before, that the high and gusty winds
which prevailed had occasioned great disquiet among these airy
householders ; then* nests being all filled with young, who were
in danger of being tilted out of their tree-rocked cradles. In-
deed, the old birds themselves seemed to have hard work to
maintain a foothold ; some kept hovering and cawing in the
air; or, if they ventured to alight, they had to hold fast, flap
their wings, and spread their tails, and thus remain see-saw-
ing on the topmost twigs.

In the course of the night, however, an awful calamity had

FAMILY MISFORTUNES. 247

taken place in this most sage and politic community. There
was a great tree, the tallest in the grove, which seemed to have
been a kind of court-end of the metropolis, and crowded with
the residence of thosffwhom Master Simon considers the nobility
and gentry. A decayed limb of this tree had given way with
the violence of this storm, and had come down with all its air-
pasties.

One should be well aware of the humours of the good Squire
and his household, to understand the general concern expressed
at this disaster. It was quite a public calamity in this rural
empire, and all seemod to feel for the poor rooks as for fellow-
citizens in distress.

The ground had been strewed with the callow young, which
were now cherished hi the aprons and bosoms of the maid-ser-
vants, and the little ladies of the family. I was pleased with
this touch of nature ; this feminine sympathy in the sufferings
of the offspring, and the maternal anxiety of the parent birds.

It was interesting, too, to witness the general agitation and
distress that seemed to prevail throughout the feathered com-
munity ; the common cause that was made of it ; and the inces-
sant hovering, and fluttering, and lamenting, that took place
in the whole rookery. There is a cord of sympathy, that runs
through the whole feathered race, as to any misfortunes of the
young ; and the cries of a wounded bird in the breeding season
will throw a whole grove in a flutter and an alarm. Indeed,
why should I confine it to the feathered tribe? Nature seems
to me to have implanted an exquisite sympathy on this subject,
which extends through all her works. It is an invariable at-
tribute of the female heart, to melt at the cry of early helpless-
ness, and to take an instinctive interest in the distresses of the
parent and its young. On the present occasion, the ladies of
the family were full of pity and commiseration ; and I shall
never forget the look that Lady Lillycraft gave the general, on
his observing that the young birds would mak& an excellent
curry, or an especial good rook-pie.

248 BRACEBRIDGE HAI,L

LOVERS' TROUBLES.

The poor soul sat singing by a sycamore tree,

Sing all a green willow;
\ Her band on her bosom, her head on her knee

Sing willow, willow, willow;
Sing all a green willow must be my garland.— Old Song,

THE fair Julia having nearly recovered from the effects of
her hawking disaster, it begins to be thought high time to
appoint a day for the wedding. As every domestic event in
a venerable and aristocratic family connexion like this is a
matter of moment, the fixing upon this important day has
of course given rise to much conference and debate.

Some slight difficulties and demurs have lately sprung up,
originating in the peculiar humours that are prevalent at the
Hall. Thus, I have overheard a very solemn consultation
between Lady Lillycraft, the parson, and Master Simon, as to
whether the marriage ought not to be postponed until the
coming month.

With all the charms of the flowery month of May, there is,
I find, an ancient prejudice against it as a marrying month.
An old proverb says, "To wed in May is to wed poverty."
Now, as Lady Lillycraft is very much given to believe in lucky
and unlucky times and seasons, and indeed is very supersti-
tious on all points relating to the tender passion, this old pro-
verb seems to have taken great hold upon her mind. She
recollects two or three instances, in her own knowledge, of
matches that took place in this month, and proved very un-
fortunate. Indeed, an own cousin of hers, who married on a
May-day, lost her husband by a fall from his horse, after they
• had lived happily together for twenty years.

The parson appeared to give great weight to her ladyship's
objections, and acknowledged the existence of a prejudice of
the kind, not merely confined to modern times, but prevalent
likewise among the ancients. In confirmation of this, he
quoted a passage from Ovid, which had a great effect on Lady
Lillycraft, being given in a language which she did not under-
stand. Even Master Simon was staggered by it ; for he listened
with a puzzled air; and then, shaking his head, sagaciously
observed, that Ovid was certainly a very wise man.

From this sage conference I likewise gathered several other

LOVERS' TROUBLES. 249

Important pieces of information, relative to weddings ; such as
that, if two were celebrated in the same church, on the same
day, the first would be happy, the second unfortunate. If, on
going to church, the bridal party should meet the funeral of a
female, it was an omen that the bride would die first ; if of a
male, the bridegroom. If the newly -married couple were to
dance together on their wedding-day, the wife would thence-
forth rule the roast ; with many other curious and unquestion-
able facts of the same nature, all which made me ponder more
than ever upon the perils which surround this happy state, and
the thoughtless ignorance of mortals as to the awful risks they
run in venturing upon it. I abstain, however, from enlarging
upon this topic, having no inclination to promote the increase
of bachelors.

Notwithstanding the due weight which the Squire gives to
traditional saws and ancient opinions, yet I am happy to find
that he makes a firm stand for the credit of this loving month,
and brings to his aid a whole legion of poetical authorities ; all
which, I presume, have been conclusive with the young couple,
as I understand they are perfectly willing to marry in May,
and abide the consequences. In a few days, therefore, the
wedding is to take place, and the Hall is in a buzz of anticipa-
tion. The housekeeper is bustling about from morning till
night, with a look full of business and importance, having a
thousand arrangements to make, the Squire intending to keep
open house on the occasion; and as to the house-maids, you
cannot look one of them in the face, but the rogue begins to
colour up and simper.

While, however, this leading love affair is going on with a
tranquillity quite inconsistent with the rules of romance, I can-
not say that the under-plots are equally propitious. The
"opening bud of love" between the general and Lady Lolly-
craft seems to have experienced some blight in the course oi
this genial season. I do not think the general has ever been
able to retrieve the ground he lost, when he fell asleep during
the captain's story. Indeed, Master Simon thinks his case ia
completely desperate, her ladyship having determined that he
is quite destitute of sentiment.

The season has been equally unpropitious to the lovelorn
Phoebe Wilkins. I fear the reader will be impatient at having
this humble amour so often alluded to ; but I confess I am apt
to take a great interest in the love troubles of simple girls of
this class, Few people have an idea of the world of care and

250 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

perplexity that these poor damsels have, in managing the
affairs of the heart.

We talk and write about the tender passion ; we give it all
the colourings of sentiment and romance, and lay the scene of
its influence in high life; but, after all, I doubt whether its
sway is not more absolute among females of an humbler sphere.
How often, could we but look into the heart, should we find
the sentiment throbbing in all its violence in the bosom of the
poor lady's-maid, rather than in that of the brilliant beauty she
is decking out for conquest ; whose brain is probably bewildered
with beaux, ball-rooms, and wax-light chandeliers.

With these humble beings, love is an honest, engrossing con-
cern. They have no ideas of settlements, establishments, equi-
pages, and pin-money. The heart — the heart, is all-in-all with
them, poor things ! There is seldom one of them but has her
love cares, and love secrets ; her doubts, and hopes, and fears,
equal to those of any heroine of romance, and ten times as
sincere. And then, too, there is her secret hoard of love docu-
ments;—the broken sixpence, the gilded brooch, the lock of
hair, the unintelligible love scrawl, all treasured up in her box
of Sunday finery, for private contemplation.

How many crosses and trials is she exposed to from some
lynx-eyed dame, or staid old vestal of a mistress, who keeps
a dragon watch over her virtue, and scouts the lover from
the door! But then, how sweet are the little love scenes,
snatched at distant intervals of holiday, and fondly dwelt on
through many a long day of household labour and confine-
ment ! If in the country, it is the dance at the fair or wake,
the interview in the church-yard after service, or the evening
stroll in the green lane. If in town, it is perhaps merely
a stolen moment of delicious talk between the bars of the
area, fearful every instant of being seen; and then, how
lightly will the simple creature carol all day afterwards at her
labour!

Poor baggage ! after all her crosses and difficulties, when she
marries, what is it but to exchange a life of comparative ease
and comfort, for one of toil and uncertainty? Perhaps, too,
the lov»ir for whom in the fondness of her nature she has com
mitted herself to fortune's freaks, turns out a worthless churl,
the dissolute, hard-hearted husband of low lif e ; who, taking to
the ale-house, leaves her to a cheerless home, to labour, penury,
and child-bearing.

When I see poor Phoebe going about with drooping eye, and

LOVERS' TROUBLES.

251

her head hanging "all o' one side," I cannot help calling to
mind the pathetic little picture drawn by Desdemona: —

My mother had a maid, called Barbara;
She was in love ; and he she loved proved mad,
And did forsake her; she had a song of willow,
An old thing 'twas; but it express'd her fortune,
And she died singing it.

I hope, however, that a better lot is in reserve for Phoebe
Wilkins, and that she may yet "rule the roast," in the ancient
empire of the Tibbets ! She is not fit to battle with hard hearts
or hard times. She was, I am told, the pet of her poor mother,
who was proud of the beauty of her child, and brought her up
more tenderly than a village girl ought to be ; and ever since
she has been left an orphan, the good ladies at the Hall have
completed the softening and spoiling of her.

I have recently observed her holding long conferences in the
church-yard, and up and down one of the lanes near the vil-
lage, with Slingsby, the schoolmaster. I at first thought the
pedagogue might be touched with the tender malady so preva-
lent in these parts of late ; but I did him injustice. Honest
Slingsby, it seems, was a friend and crony of her late father,
the parish clerk; and is on intimate terms with the Tibbets
family. Prompted, therefore, by his good-will towards all par-
ties, and secretly instigated, perhaps, by the managing dame
Tibbets, he has undertaken to talk with Phoebe upon the sub-
ject. He gives her, however, but little encouragement.
Slingsby has a formidable opinion of the aristocratical feeling of
old Ready-Money, and thinks, if Phosbe were even to make the
matter up with the son, she would find the father totally hos-
tile to the match. The poor damsel, therefore, is reduced
almost to despair ; and Slingsby, who is too good-natured not
to sympathize in her distress, has advised her to give up all
thoughts of young Jack, and has proposed as a substitute his
learned coadjutor, the prodigal son. He has even, in the full-
ness of his heart, offered to give up the school-house to them ;
though it would leave him once more adrift in the wide world.

262 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

THE HISTORIAN.

Hermione. Pray you sit by us,

And tell's a tale.

Mtimiliu*. Merry or sad shall' t be!

Hermione. As merry as you will.

Mamiliu*. A sad tale's best for winter.

I have one of sprites and goblins.

tlerrtnone. Let's have that, air.

— Winter's TdU.

As this is a story- telling age, I have been tempted occasion-
ally to give the reader one of the many tales that are served
up with supper at the Hall. I might, indeed, have furnished a
series almost equal in number to the Arabian Nights ; but some
were rather hackneyed and tedious ; others I did not feel war-
ranted in betraying into print; and many more were of the
old general's relating, and turned principally upon tiger-hunt-
ing, elephant-riding, and Seringapatam ; enlivened by the won-
derful deeds of Tippoo Saib, and the excellent jokes of Major
Pendergast.

I had all along maintained a quiet post at a corner of the
table, where I had been able to indulge my humour undis-
turbed: listening attentively when the story was very good,
and dozing a little when it was rather dull, which I consider
the perfection of auditorship.

I was roused the other evening from a slight trance into
which I had fallen during one of the general's histories, by a
sudden call from the Squire to furnish some entertainment of
the kind in my turn. Having been so profound a listener to
others, I could not in conscience refuse ; but neither my mem-
ory nor invention being ready to answer so unexpected a
demand, I begged leave to read a manuscript tale from the pen
of my fellow-countryman, the late Mr. Diedrich Knickerbocker,
the historian of New- York. As this ancient chronicler may
not be better known to my readers than he was to the company
at the Hall, a word or two concerning him may not be amiss,
before proceeding to his manuscript.

Diedrich Knickerbocker was a native of New- York, a descen-
dant from one of the ancient Dutch families which originally
settled that province, and remained there after it was taken
possession of by the English in 1664. The descendants of these
Dutch families still remain in villages and neighbourhoods in

HISTORIAN. 253

various parts of the country, retaining with singular obstinacy,
the dresses, manners, and even language of their ancestors, and
forming a very distinct and curious feature in the motley pop-
ulation of the State. In a hamlet whose spire may be seen from
New- York, rising from above the brow of a hill on the opposite
side of the Hudson, many of the old folks, even at the present
day, speak English with an accent, and the Dominie preaches
in Dutch ; and so completely is the hereditary love of quiet and
silence maintained, that in one of these drowsy villages, in the
middle of a warm summer's day, the buzzing of a stout blue>
bottle fly will resound from one end of the place to the other.

With the laudable hereditary feeling thus kept up among
these worthy people, did Mr. Knickerbocker undertake to
write a history of his native city, comprising the reign of ita
three Dutch governors during the time that it was yet under tha
domination of the Hogenmogens of Holland. In the execution
of this design, the little Dutchman has displayed great histori-
cal research, and a wonderful consciousness of the dignity of
his subject. His work, however, has been so little understood,
as to be pronounced a mere work of humour, satirizing the fol-
lies of the times, both in politics and morals, and giving whim-
sical views of human nature.

Be this as it may : — among the papers left behind him were
several tales of a lighter nature, apparently thrown together
from materials which he had gathered during his profound
researches for his history, and which he seems to have cast by
with neglect, as unworthy of publication. Some of these have
fallen into my hands, by an accident which it is needless at
present to mention ; and one of these very stories, with its pre-
lude in the words of Mr. Knickerbocker, I undertook to read,
by way of acquitting myself of the debt which I owed to the
other story-tellers at the Hall. I subjoin it, for such of my
readers as are fond of stories.*

* I find that the tale of Rip Van Winkle, given in the Sketch-Book, has been dis-
covered by divers writers in magazines to have been founded on a little German
tradition, and the matter has been revealed to the world as if it were a foul
instance of plagiarism marvellously brought to light. In a note which follows
that tale, I had alluded to the superstition on which it was founded, and I thought
a mere allusion was sufficient, as the tradition was so notorious as to be inserted
In almost every collection of German legends. I had seen it myself in three. I
could hardly have hoped, therefore, in the present age, when every source of ghost
and goblin story is ransacked, that the origin of the tale would escape discovery.
In fact, I had considered popular traditions of the kind as fair foundations for au-
thors of fiction to build upon, and made use of the one in question accordingly. I

254 BRACEBRIDGE BALL.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE.

FROM THE MSB. OF THE LATE DIEDRICH KNICKERBOCKER.

Formerly, almost every place had a house of this kind. If a house was seated on
•ome melancholy place, or built in some old romantic manner, or if any particular
accident had happened in it, such as murder, sudden death, or the like, to be
•ure that house had a mark set upon it, and was afterwards esteemed the habita-
tion of a ghost.— BOURNE'S Antiquities.

IN the neighbourhood of the ancient city of the Manhattoes,
there stood, not very many years since, an old mansion,
which, when I was a boy, went by the name of the Haunted
House. It was one of the very few remains of the architecture
of the early Dutch settlers, and must have been a house of
some consequence at the time when it was built. It consisted
of a centre and two wings, the gable-ends of which were shaped
like stairs. It was built partly of wood, and partly of small
Dutch bricks, such as the worthy colonists brought with them
from Holland, before they discovered that bricks could be man-
ufactured elsewhere. The house stood remote from the road,
in the centre of a large field, with an avenue of old locust *
trees leading up to it, several of which had been shivered by
lightning, and two or three blown down. A few apple-trees
grew straggling about the field ; there were traces also of what
had been a kitchen-garden ; but the fences were broken down,
the vegetables had disappeared, or had grown wild, and turned
to little better than weeds, with here and there a ragged rose-
bush, or a tall sunflower shooting up from among brambles,
and hanging its head sorrowfully, as if contemplating the sur-
rounding desolation. Part of the roof of the old house had
fallen in, the windows were shattered, the panels of the doors
broken, and mended with rough boards ; and there were two
rusty weathercocks at the ends of the house, which made a
great jingling and whistling as they whirled about, but always
pointed wrong. The appearance of the whole place was forlorn
and desolate, at the best of times ; but, in unruly weather, the
howling of the wind about the crazy old mansion, the screech-
am not dtaposed to contest the matter, however, and indeed consider myself so com-
pletely overpaid by the public for my trivial performances, that I am content to
submit to any deduction, which, in their after-thoughts, they may think proper t«
make.

THE HAUNTED HOUSE, 255

ing of the weathercocks, the slamming and banging of a few
loose window-shutters, had altogether so wild and dreary an
effect, that the neighbourhood stood perfectly in awe of the
place, and pronounced it the rendezvous of hobgoblins. I
recollect the old building well; for I remember how many
times, when an idle, unlucky urchin, I have prowled round its
precincts, with some of my graceless companions, on holiday
afternoons, when out on a freebooting cruise among the
orchards. There was a tree standing near the house, that bore
the most beautiful and tempting fruit ; but then it was on
enchanted ground, for the place was so charmed by frightful
stories that we dreaded to approach it. Sometimes we would
venture in a body, and get near the Hesperian tree, keeping an
eye upon the old mansion, and darting fearful glances into its
shattered window ; when, just as we were about to seize upon
our prize, an exclamation from some one of the gang, or an
accidental noise, would throw us all into a panic, and we would
scamper headlong from the place, nor stop until we had got
quite into the road. Then there were sure to be a host of fear-
ful anecdotes told of strange cries and groans, or of some
hideous face suddenly seen staring out of one of the windows.
By degrees we ceased to venture into these lonely grounds,
but would stand at a distance and throw stones at the build-
ing; and there was something fearfully pleasing in the sound,
as they rattled along the roof, or sometimes struck some jing-
ling fragments of glass out of the windows.

The origin of this house was lost in the obscurity that covers
the early period of the province, while under the government of
their high mightinesses the states-general. Some reported it to
have been a country residence of Wilhelmus Kieft, commonly
called the Testy, one of the Dutch governors of New- Amster-
dam ; others said that it had been built by a naval commander
who served under Van Tromp, and who, on being disappointed
of preferment, retired from the service in disgust, became a
philosopher through sheer spite, and brought over all his
wealth to the province, that he might live according to his
humour, and despise the world. The reason of its having
fallen to decay, was likewise a matter of dispute ; some said
that it was in chancery, and had already cost more than its
worth in legal expenses ; but the most current, and, of course,
the most probable account, was that it was haunted, and that
nobody could live quietly in it. There can, in fact, be very
little doubt that this last was the case, there were so many

BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

corroborating stories to prove it, — not an old woman in the
neighbourhood but could furnish at least a score. There was a
gray-headed curmudgeon of a negro that lived hard by, who
had a whole budget of them to tell, many of which had happened
to himself. I recollect many a tune stopping with my school-
mates, and getting him to relate some. The old crone lived in
a (hovel, in the midst of a small patch of potatoes and Indian
corn, which his master had given him on setting him free.
He would come to us, with his hoe in his hand, and as we sat
perched, like a row of swallows, on the rail of the fence, in the
mellow twilight of a summer evening, he would tell us such
fearful stories, accompanied by such awful rollings of his
white eyes, that we were almost afraid of our own footsteps as
we returned home afterwards in the dark.

Poor old Pompey ! many years are past since he died, and
went to keep company with the ghosts he was so fond of talk-
ing about. He was buried in a corner of his own little potato-
patch ; the plough soon passed over his grave, and levelled it
with the rest of the field, and nobody thought any more of the
gray -headed negro. By a singular chance, I was strolling in that
neighbourhood several years afterwards, when I had grown
up to be a young man, and I found a knot of gossips speculating
on a skull which had just been turned up by a ploughshare.
They of course determined it to be the remains of some one that
had been murdered, and they had raked up with it some of
the traditionary tales of the haunted house. I knew it at once
to be the relic of poor Pompey, but I held my tongue ; for I
am too considerate of other people's enjoyment, ever to mar a
story of a ghost or a murder. I took care, however, to see the
bones of my old friend once more buried in a place where they
were not likely to be disturbed. As I sat on the turf and
watched the interment, I fell into a long conversation with an
old gentleman of the neighbourhood, John Josse Vandermoere,
a pleasant gossiping man, whose whole life was spent in hear-
ing and telling the news of the province. He recollected old
Pompey, and his stories about the Haunted House ; but he as-
sured me he could give me one still more strange than any that
Pompey had related : and on my expressing a great curiosity
to hear it, he sat down beside me on the turf, and told the
following tale. I have endeavoured to give it as nearly as
possible in his words ; but it is now many years since, and I
am grown old, and my memory is not over-good. I cannot
therefore vouch for the language, but I am always scrupulous
as to facts. D. K.

DOLPH HEYLIGm. 257

DOLPH HEYLIGER

" I take the town of Concord, where I dwell,
All Kilborn be my witness, if I were not
Begot in bashfulness, brought up in shamefacedness.
Let 'un bring a dog but to my vace that can
Zay I have beat 'un, and without a vault;
Or but a cat will swear upon a book,
I have as much as zet a vire her tail,
And I'll give him or her a crown for 'mends." — Tale of a Tub.

IN the early time of the province of New-York, while it
groaned under the tyranny of the English governor, Lord
Cornbury, who carried his cruelties towards the Dutch inhabi-
tants so far as to allow no Dominie, or schoolmaster, to officiate
in their language, without his special license ; about this time,
there lived in the jolly little old city of the Manhattoes, a kind
motherly dame, known by the name of Dame Heyliger. She
was the widow of a Dutch sea-captain, who died suddenly of a
fever, in consequence of working too hard, and eating too
heartily, at the time when all the inhabitants turned out in a
panic, to fortify the place against the invasion of a small
French privateer.* He left her with very little money, and one
infant son, the only survivor of several children. The good
woman had need of much management, to make both ends
meet, and keep up a decent appearance. However, as her hus-
band had fallen a victim to his zeal for the public safety, it
was universally agreed that " something ought to be done for
the widow;" and on the hopes of this "something" she lived
tolerably for some years ; in the meantime, every body pitied
and spoke well of her; and that helped along.

She lived in a small house, in a small street, called Garden-
street, very probably from a garden which may have nourished
there some time or other. As her necessities every year grew
greater, and the talk of the public about doing ' ' something for
her" grew less, she had to cast about for some mode of doing
something for herself, by way of helping out her slender means,
and maintaining her independence, of which she was somewhat
tenacious.

Living in a mercantile town, she had caught something of
the spirit, and determined to venture a little in the great lot-

258 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

tery of commerce. On a sudden, therefore, to the great sur-
prise of the street, there appeared at her window a grand array
of gingerbread kings and queens, with their arms stuck
a-kimbo, after the invariable royal manner. There were also
several broken tumblers, some filled with sugar-plums, some
with marbles; there were, moreover, cakes of various kinds,
and barley sugar, and Holland dolls, and wooden horses, with
here and there gilt-covered picture-books, and now and then a
skein of thread, or a dangling pound of candles. At the door
of the house sat the good old dame's cat, a decent demure-look-
ing personage, that seemed to scan every body that passed, to
criticise their dress, and now and then to stretch her neck,
and look out with sudden curiosity, to see what was going on
at the other end of the street ; but if by chance any idle vaga-
bond dog came by, and offered to be uncivil — hoity-toity !— how
she would bristle up, and growl, and spit, and strike out her
paws ! she was as indignant as ever was an ancient and ugly
spinster, on the approach of some graceless profligate.

But though the good woman had to come down to these
humble means of subsistence, yet she still kept up a feeling of
family pride, having descended from the Vanderspiegels, of
Amsterdam ; and she had the family arms painted and framed,
and hung over her mantel-piece. She was, in truth, much re-
spected by all the poorer people of the place ; her house was
quite a resort of the old wives of the neighbourhood ; they would
drop in there of a winter's afternoon, as she sat knitting on
one side of her fire-place, her cat purring on the other, and the
tea-kettle singing before it ; and they would gossip with her
until late in the evening. There was always an arm-chair for
Peter de Groodt, sometimes called Long Peter, and sometimes
Peter Longlegs, the clerk and sexton of the little Lutheran
Jchurch, who was her great crony, and indeed the oracle of her
(fire-side. Nay, the Dominie himself did not disdain, now and
then, to step in, converse about the state of her mind, and take
a glass of her special good cherry-brandy. Indeed, he never
failed to call on new-year's day, and wish her a happy new
year ; and the good dame, who was a little vain on some points,
always piqued herself on giving him as large a cake as any one
in town.

I have said that she had one son. He was the child of her
old age ; but could hardly be called the comfort — for, of all un-
lucky urchins, Dolph Heyliger was the most mischievous.
Not that the whipster was really vicious ; he was only full of

DOLPR RETLTOER.

fun and frolic, and had that daring, gamesome spirit, which is
extolled in a rich man's child, but execrated in a poor man's.
He was continually getting into scrapes : his mother was in-
cessantly harassed with complaints of some waggish pranks
which he had played off ; bills were sent in for windows that he
had broken ; in a word, he had not reached his fourteenth year
before he was pronounced, by all the neighbourhood, to be a
"wicked dog, the wickedest dog in the street!" Nay, one old
gentleman, in a claret-coloured coat, with a thin red face, and
ferret eyes, went so far as to assure Dame Heyliger, that her
son would, one day or other, come to the gallows !

Yet, notwithstanding all this, the poor old soul loved her
boy. It seemed as though she loved him the better, the worse
he behaved ; and that he grew more in her favour, the more he
grew out of favour with the world. Mothers are foolish, fond-
hearted beings ; there's no reasoning them out of their dotage ;
and, indeed, this poor woman's child was all that was left to
love her in this world ; — so we must not think it hard that she
turned a deaf ear to her good friends, who sought to prove to
her that Dolph would come to a halter.

To do the varlet justice, too, he was strongly attached to his
parent. He would not willingly have given her pain on any
account ; and when he had been doing wrong, it was but for
him to catch his poor mother's eye fixed wistfully and sorrow-
fully upon him, to fill his heart with bitterness and contrition.
But he was a heedless youngster, and could not, for the life of
him, resist any new temptation to fun and mischief. Though
quick at his learning, whenever he could be brought to apply
himself, yet he was always prone to be led away by idle com-
pany, and would play truant to hunt after birds'-nests, to rob
orchards, or to swim in the Hudson.

In this way he grew up, a tall, lubberly boy ; and his mother
began to be greatly perplexed what to do with him, or how to
put him in a way to do for himself ; for he had acquired such
an unlucky reputation, that no one seemed willing to employ
him.

Many were the consultations that she held with Peter de
Groodt, the clerk and sexton, who was her prime counsellor.
Peter was as much perplexed as herself, for he had no great
opinion of the boy, and thought he would never come to good.
He at one time advised her to send him to sea — a piece of advice
only given in the most desperate cases; but Dame Heyliger
would not listen to such an idea ; she could not think of letting

260 BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

Dolph go out of her sight. She was sitting one day knitting
by her fireside, in great perplexity, -when the sexton entered
with an air of unusual vivacity and briskness. He had just
come from a funeral. It had been that of a boy of Dolph's
years, who had been apprentice to a famous German doctor,
and had died of a consumption. It is true, there had bivn a
whisper that the deceased had been brought to his end by b« ii -
made the subject of the doctor's experiments, on which he w;r<
apt to try the effects of a new compound, or a quieting draught.
This, however, it is likely, was a mere scandal; at any rate,
Peter de Groodt did not think it worth mentioning; though,
had we time to philosophize, it would be a curious matter for
speculation, why a doctor's family is apt to be so lean and
cadaverous, and a butcher's so jolly and rubicund.

Peter de Groodt, as I said before, entered the house of Dame
Heyliger, with unusual alacrity. He was full of a bright idea
that had popped into his head at the funeral, and over which
he had chuckled as he shovelled the earth into the grave of the
doctor's disciple. It had occurred to him, that, as the situation
of the deceased was vacant at the doctor's, it would be the very
place for Dolph. The boy had parts, and could pound a pestle
and run an errand with any boy in the town— and what more
was wanted in a student?

The suggestion of the sage Peter was a vision of glory to the
mother. She already saw Dolph, in her mind's eye, with a
cane at his nose, a knocker at his door, and an M. D. at the end
of his name — one of the established dignitaries of the town.

The matter, once undertaken, was soon effected ; the sexton
had some influence with the doctor, they having had much
dealing together in the way of their separate professions ; and
the very next morning he called and conducted the urchin,
jclad in his Sunday clothes, to undergo the inspection of Dr.
[Karl Lodovick Knipperhausen.

I They found the doctor seated in an elbow-chair, in one corner
of his study, or laboratory, with a large volume, in German
print, before him. He was a short, fat man, with a dark,
square face, rendered more dark by a black velvet cap. He
had a little, knobbed nose, not unlike the ace of spades, with a
pair of spectacles gleaming on each side of his dusky counte-
nance, like a couple of bow-windows.

Dolph felt struck with awe, on entering into the presence of
this learned man ; and gazed about him with boyish wonder at
the furniture of this chamber of knowledge, which appeared

DOLPH HE7LIGER. 261

to him almost as the den of a magician. In the centre stood a
claw-footed table, with pestle and mortar, phials and gallipots,
and a pair of small, burnished scales. At one end was a heavy
clothes-press, turned into a receptacle for drugs and compounds ;
against which hung the doctor's hat and cloak, and gold-headed
cane, and on the top grinned a human skull. Along the mantel-
piece were glass vessels, in which were snakes and lizards, and
a human foetus preserved in spirits. A closet, the doors of
which were taken off, contained three whole shelves of books,
and some, too, of mighty folio dimensions — a collection, the
like of which Dolph had never before beheld. As, however,
the library did not take up the whole of the closet, the doctor's
thrifty housekeeper had occupied the rest with pots of pickles
and preserves; and had hung about the room, among awful
implements of the healing art, strings of red pepper and cor-
pulent cucumbers, carefully preserved for seed.

Peter de Groodt, and his protege, were received with great
gravity and stateliness by the doctor, who was a very wise,
dignified little man, and never smiled. He surveyed Dolph
from head to foot, above, and under, and through his spectacles ;
and the poor lad's heart quailed as these great glasses glared on
him like two full moons. The doctor heard all that Peter de
Groodt had to say in favour of the youthful candidate ; and
then, wetting his thumb with the end of his tongue, he began
deliberately to turn over page after page of the great black
volume before him. At length, after many hums and haws,
and strokings of the chin, and all that hesitation and delibera-
tion with which a wise man proceeds to do what he intended to
do from the very first, the doctor agreed to take the lad as a
disciple ; to give him bed, board, and clothing, and to instruct
him in the healing art ; in return for which, he was to have his
services until his twenty-first year.

Behold, then, our hero, all at once transformed from an
unlucky urchin, running wild about the streets, to a student
of medicine, diligently pounding a pestle, under the auspices of
the learned Doctor Karl Lodovick Knipperhausen. It was a
happy transition for his fond old mother. She was delighted
with the idea of her boy's being brought up worthy of his
ancestors ; and anticipated the day when he would be able to
hold up his head with the lawyer, that lived in the large house
opposite ; or, perad venture, with the Dominie himself.

Doctor Knipperhausen was a native of the Palatinate of Ger-
many ; from whence, in company with many of his countrymen,

262 BRACEBRLDGE HALL.

he had taken refuge in England, on account of religious perse-
cution. He was one of nearly three thousand Palatines^ who
came over from England in 1710, under the protection of
Governor Hunter. Where the doctor had studied, how he had
acquired his medical knowledge, and where he had received
his diploma, it is hard at present to say, for nobody knew at
the time; yet it is certain that his profound skill and abstruse
knowledge were the talk and wonder of the common people,
far and near.

TTJH practice was totally different from that of any other
physician ; consisting in mysterious compounds, known only to
himself, in the preparing and administering of which, it was
said, he always consulted the stars. 80 high an opinion was
entertained of his skill, particularly by the German and Dutch
inhabitants, that they always resorted to him in desperate
cases. He was one of those infallible doctors, that are always
effecting sudden and surprising cures, when the patient has
been given up by all the regular physicians; unless, as is
shrewdly observed, the case has been left too long before it
was put into their hands. The doctor's library was the talk
and marvel of the neighbourhood, I might almost say of the
entire burgh. The good people looked with reverence at a man
that had read three whole shelves full of books, and some of
them, too, as large as a family Bible. There were many dis-
putes among the members of the little Lutheran church, as to
which was the wiser man, the doctor or the Dominie. Some
of his admirers even went so far as to say, that he knew more
than the governor himself — in a word, it was thought that
there was no end to his knowledge !

No sooner was Dolph received into the doctor's family, than
he was put in possession of the lodging of his predecessor. It
was a garret-room of a steep-roofed Dutch house, where the
rain patted on the shingles, and the lightning gleamed, and the
wind piped through the crannies in stormy weather; and
where whole troops of hungry rats, like Don Cossacks, galloped
about in defiance of traps and ratsbane.

He was soon up to his ears in medical studies, being employed,
morning, noon, and night, in rolling pills, filtering tinctures,
or pounding the pestle and mortar, in one corner of the labora-
tory ; while the doctor would take his seat in another corner,
when he had nothing else to do, or expected visitors, and,
arrayed in his morning-gown and velvet cap, would pore over
the contents of some folio volume. It ig true, that the regular

DOLPH SEYLIQER 263

thumping of Dolph's pestle, or, perhaps, the drowsy buzzing of
the summer flies, would now and then lull the little man into a
slumber ; but then his spectacles were always wide awake, and
studiously regarding the book.

There was another personage in the house, however, to whom
Dolph was obliged to pay allegiance. Though a bachelor, and
a man of such great dignity and importance, yet the doctor
was, like many other wise men, subject to petticoat govern-
ment. He was completely under the sway of his housekeeper;
a spare, busy, fretting housewife, in a little, round, quilted,
German cap, with a huge bunch of keys jingling at the girdle
of an exceedingly long waist. Frau Ilse (or Frow Hsy, as it
was pronounced) had accompanied him in his various migra-
tions from Germany to England, and from England to the
province ; managing his establishment and himself too : ruling
him, it is true, with a gentle hand, but carrying a high hand
with all the world beside. How she had acquired such ascen-
dency, I do not pretend to say. People, it is true, did talk-
but have not people been prone to talk ever since the world
began? Who can tell how women generally contrive to get thfc
upper hand? A husband, it is true, may now and then be
master in his own house ; but who ever knew a bachelor that
was not managed by his housekeeper?

Indeed, Frau Ilsy's power was not confined to the doctor's
household. She was one of those prying gossips that know
every one's business better than they do themselves ; and whose
all-seeing eyes, and all-telling tongues, are terrors throughout
a neighbourhood.

Nothing of any moment transpired in the world of scandal of
this little burgh, but it was known to Frau Hsy. She had her
crew of cronies, that were perpetually hurrying to her little
parlour, with some precious bit of news ; nay, she would some-
times discuss a whole volume of secret history, as she held the
street-door ajar, and gossiped with one of these garrulous
cronies in the very teeth of a December blast.

Between the doctor and the housekeeper, it may easily be
supposed that Dolph had a busy life of it. As Frau Dsy kept
the keys, and literally ruled the roast, it was starvation to
offend her, though he found the study of her temper more per-
plexing even than that of medicine. When not busy in the
laboratory, she kept him running hither and thither on her
errands ; and on Sundays he was obliged to accompany her to
and from church, and carry her Bible. Many a time has the

264 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

poor varlet stood shivering and blowing his fingers, or holding
his frost-bitten nose, in the church-yard, while Ilsy and her
cronies were huddled together, wagging their heads, and tear-
big some unlucky character to pieces.

With all his advantages, however, Dolph made very slow
progress in his art. This was no fault of the doctor's, certainly,
for he took unwearied pains with the lad, keeping him close to
the pestle and mortar, or on the trot about town with phials
and pill-boxes ; and if he ever flagged in his industry, which he
was rather apt to do, the doctor would fly into a passion, and
ask him if he ever expected to learn his profession, unless he
applied himself closer to the study. The fact is, he still retained
the fondness for sport and mischief that had marked his child-
hood ; the habit, indeed, had strengthened with his years, and
gained force from being thwarted and constrained. He daily
grew more and more untractable, and lost favour in the eyes
both of the doctor and the housekeeper.

In the meantime the doctor went on, waxing wealthy and
renowned. He was famous for his skill in managing cases not
laid down in the books. He had cured several old women and
young girls of witchcraft; a terrible complaint, nearly as
prevalent in the province in those days as hydrophobia is at
present. He had even restored one strapping country girl to
perfect health, who had gone so far as to vomit crooked pins
and needles; which is considered a desperate stage of the
malady. It was whispered, also, that he was possessed of the
art of preparing love-powders ; and many applications had he
in consequence from love-sick patients of both sexes. But all
these cases formed the mysterious part of his practice, in which,
according to the cant phrase, " secrecy and honour might be
depended on." Dolph, therefore, was obliged to turn out of
the study whenever such consultations occurred, though it is
said he learnt more of the secrets of the art at the key-hole,
than by all the rest of his studies put together.

As the doctor increased in wealth, he began to extend his
possessions, and to look forward, like other great men, to the
time when he should retire to the repose of a country-seat. For
this purpose he had purchased a farm, or, as the Dutch settlers
called it, a boiverie, a few miles from town. It had been the
residence of a wealthy family, that had returned some time
since to Holland. A large mansion-house stood in the centre of
it, very much out of repair, and wliich, in consequence of cer-
tain reports, had received the appellation of the Haunted

DOLPH HETLIOER. 265

House. Either from these reports, or from its actual dreariness,
the doctor had found it impossible to get a tenant ; and, that
the place might not fall to ruin before he could reside in it him
self, he had placed a country boor, with his family, in one wing,
with the privilege of cultivating the farm on shares.

The doctor now felt all the dignity of a landholder rising
within him. He had a little of the German pride of territory
in his composition, and almost looked upon himself as owner
of a principality. He began to complain of the fatigue of busi-
ness; and was fond of riding out "to look at his estate." His
little expeditions to his lands were attended with a bustle and
parade that created a sensation throughout the neighbourhood.
His wall-eyed horse stood, stamping and whisking off the flies,
for a full hour before the house. Then the doctor's saddle-bags
would be brought out and adjusted ; then, after a little while,
his cloak would be rolled up and strapped to the saddle ; then
his umbrella would be buckled to the cloak; while, in the
meantime, a group of ragged boys, that observant class of
beings, would gather before the door. At length, the doctor
would issue forth, in a pair of jack-boots that reached above
his knees, and a cocked hat flapped down hi front. As he was a
short, fat man, he took some time to mount into the saddle ;
and when there, he took some tune to have the saddle and
stirrups properly adjusted, enjoying the wonder and admira-
tion of the urchin crowd. Even after he had set off, he would
pause in the middle of the street, or trot back two or three
times to give some parting orders ; which were answered by
the housekeeper from the door, or Dolph from the study, or
the black cook from the cellar, or the chambermaid from the
garret- window ; and there were generally some last words
bawled after him, just as he was turning the corner.

The whole neighbourhood would be aroused by this pomp and
circumstance. The cobbler would leave his last; the barber
would thrust out his frizzed head, with a comb sticking in it;
a knot would collect at the grocer's door ; and the word would
be buzzed from one end of the street to the other, " The doctor's
riding out to his country-seat !"

These were golden moments for Dolph. No sooner was the
doctor out of sight, than pestle and mortar were abandoned ;
the laboratory was left to take care of itself, and the student
was off on some madcap frolic.

Indeed, it must be confessed, the youngster, as he grew up,
seemed in a fair way to fulfil the prediction of the old claret-

266 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

coloured gentleman. He was the ringleader of all holiday
sports, and midnight gambols ; ready for all kinds of mischiev-
ous pranks, and harebrained adventures.

There is nothing so troublesome as a hero on a small scale,
or, rather, a hero in a small town. Dolph soon became the ab-
horrence of all drowsy, housekeeping old citizens, who hated
noise, and had no relish for waggery. The good dames, too,
considered him as little better than a reprobate, gathered their
daughters under their wings whenever he approached, and
pointed him out as a warning to their sons. No one seemed to
hold him in much regard, excepting the wild striplings of the
place, who were captivated by his open-hearted, daring man-
ners, and the negroes, who always look upon every idle, do-
nothing youngster as a kind of gentleman. Even the good
Peter de Groodt, who had considered himself a kind of patron
of the lad, began to despair of him ; and would shake his head
dubiously, as he listened to a long complaint from the house-
keeper, and sipped a glass of her raspberry brandy.

Still his mother was not to be wearied out of her affection,
by all the waywardness of her boy ; nor disheartened by the
stories of his misdeeds, with which her good friends were con-
tinually regaling her. She had, it is true, very little of the
pleasure which rich people enjoy, in always hearing their chil-
dren praised ; but she considered all this ill-will as a kind of
persecution which he suffered, and she liked him the better on
that account. She saw him growing up, a fine, tall, good-look-
ing youngster, and she looked at him with the secret pride of a
mother's heart. It was her great desire that Dolph should
appear like a gentleman, and all the money she could save
went towards helping out his pocket and his wardrobe. She
would look out of the window after him, as he sallied forth in
his best array, and her heart would yearn with delight ; and
once, when Peter de Groodt, struck with the youngster's
gallant appearance on a bright Sunday morning, observed,
"Well, after all, Dolph does grow a comely fellow!" the tear
of pride started into the mother's eye : " Ah, neighbour ! neigh-
bour!" exclaimed she, "they may say what they please; poor
Dolph will yet hold up his head with the best of them."

Dolph Heyliger had now nearly attained his one-and-twenti-
eth year, and the term of his medical studies was just expiring;
yet it must be confessed that he knew little more of the pro-
fession than when he first entered the doctor's doors. This,
however, could not be from want of quickness of parts, for ha

DOLPH EEYLIOER. 267

showed amazing aptness in mastering other branches of knowl-
edge, which he could only have studied at intervals. He was,
for instance, a sure marksman, and won all the geese and
turkeys at Christmas holidays. He was a bold rider ; he was
famous for leaping and wrestling ; he played tolerably on the
fiddle ; could swim like a fish ; and was the best hand in the
whole place at fives or nine-pins.

All these accomplishments, however, procured him no favour
in the eyes of the doctor, who grew more and more crabbed
and intolerant, the nearer the term of apprenticeship ap-
proached. Frau Ilsy, too, was for ever finding some occasion
to raise a windy tempest about his ears ; and seldom encoun-
tered him about the house, without a clatter of the tongue ; so
that at length the jingling of her keys, as she approached, was
to Dolph like the ringing of the prompter's bell, that gives
notice of a theatrical thunder-storm. Nothing but the infinite
good-humour of the heedless youngster, enabled him to bear all
this domestic tyranny without open rebellion. It was evident
that the doctor and his housekeeper were preparing to beat the
poor youth out of the nest, the moment his term should have
expired ; a shorthand mode winch the doctor had of providing
for useless disciples.

Indeed, the little man had been rendered more than usually
irritable lately, in consequence of various cares and vexations
which his country estate had brought upon him. The doctor
had been repeatedly annoyed by the rumours and tales which
prevailed concerning the old mansion ; and found it difficult to
prevail even upon the countryman and his family to remain
there rent-free. Every time he rode out to the farm, he was
teased by some fresh complaint of strange noises and fearful
sights, with which the tenants were disturbed at night; and
the doctor would come home fretting and fuming, and vent his,
spleen upon the whole household. It was indeed a sore griev-j
ance, that affected him both in pride and purse. He was
threatened with an absolute loss of the profits of his property ;
and then, what a blow to his territorial consequence, to be the
landlord of a haunted house !

It was observed, however, that with all his vexation, the
doctor never proposed to sleep in the house himself ; nay, he
could never be prevailed upon to remain in the premises after
dark, but made the best of his way for town, as soon as the
bats began to flit about in the twilight. The fact was, the doc-
t;or had a secret belief in ghosts, having passed the early part

268 BRACEBKIXGE HALL.

of his life in a country where they particularly abound ; and
indeed the story went, that, when a boy, he had once seen the
devil upon the Hartz mountains in Germany.

At length, the doctor's vexations on this head were brought
to a crisis. One morning, as he sat dozing over a volume in
his study, he was suddenly started from his slumbers by the
bustling in of the housekeeper.

"Here's a fine to do!" cried she, as she entered the room.
"Here's Glaus Hopper come in, bag and baggage, from the
farm, and swear's he'll have nothing more to do with it. The
whole family have been frightened out of their wits; for there's
such racketing and rummaging about the old house, ihat they
can't sleep quiet in their beds !"

" Donner und blitzen !" cried the doctor, impatiently; "will
they never have done chattering about that house? What a
pack of fools, to let a few rats and mice frighten them out of
good quarters I"

" Nay, nay," said the housekeeper, wagging her head know-
ingly, and piqued at having a good ghost story doubted,
"there's more in it than rats and mice. All the neighbour-
hood talks about the house ; and then such sights have been
seen in it ! Peter de Groodt tells me, that the family that sold
you the house and went to Holland, dropped several strange
hints about it, and said, ' they wished you joy of your bargain ; '
and you know yourself there's no getting any family to live
in it."

"Peter de Groodt's a ninny — an old woman," said the doctor,
peevishly; " I'll warrant he's been filling these people's heads
full of stories. It's just like his nonsense about the ghost that
haunted the church belfry, as an excuse for not ringing the
bell that cold night when Harmanus BrinkerhofFs house was
on fire. Send Glaus to me."

Glaus Hopper now made his appearance : a simple country
lout, full of awe at finding himself in the very study of Dr.
Knipperhausen, and too much embarrassed to enter into much
detail of the matters that had caused his alarm. He stood
twirling his hat in one hand, resting sometimes on one leg,
sometimes on the other, looking occasionally at the doctor, and
now and then stealing a fearful glance at the death's-head that
seemed ogling him from the top of the clothes-press.

The doctor tried every means to persuade him to return to
the farm, but all in vain ; he maintained a dogged determina-
tion on the subject; and at the close of every argument of

DOLPH UBTLIGER.

solicitation, would make the same brief , inflexible reply, "Ich
kan nicht, mynheer." The doctor was a "little pot, and soon
hot ;" his patience was exhausted by these continual vexations
about his estate. The stubborn refusal of Glaus Hopper seemed
to him like flat rebellion ; his temper suddenly boiled over, and
Glaus was glad to make a rapid retreat to escape scalding.

When the bumpkin got to the housekeeper's room, he found
Peter de Groodt, and several other true believers, ready to
receive him. Here he indemnified himself for the restraint he
had suffered in the study, and opened a budget of stories about
the haunted house that astonished all his hearers. The house-
keeper believed them all, if it was only to spite the doctor for
having received her intelligence so uncourteously. Peter de
Groodt matched them with many a wonderful legend of the
times of the Dutch dynasty, and of the Devil's Stepping-stones ;
and of the pirate that was hanged at Gibbet Island, and con-
tinued to swing there at night long after the gallows was taken
down ; and of the ghost of the unfortunate Governor Leisler,
who was hanged for treason, which haunted the old fort and.
the government house. The gossiping knot dispersed, each,
charged with direful intelligence. The sexton disburdened
himself at a vestry meeting that was held that very day, and
the black cook forsook her kitchen, and spent half the day at
the street pump, that gossiping place of servants, dealing forth
the news to all that came for water. In a little time, the whole
town was in a buzz with tales about the haunted house. Some
said that Glaus Hopper had seen the devil, while others hinted
that the house was haunted by the ghosts of some of the
patients whom the doctor had physicked out of the world, and
that was the reason why he did not venture to live in it him-
self.

i All this put the little doctor in a terrible fume. He threat-
ened vengeance on any one who should affect the value of his
property by exciting popular prejudices. He complained
loudly of thus being in a manner dispossessed of his territories
by mere bugbears; but he secretly determined to have the
house exorcised by the Dominie. Great was his relief, there-
fore, when, in the midst of his perplexities, Dolph stepped
forward and undertook to garrison the haunted house. The
youngster had been listening to all the stories of Glaus Hopper
and Peter de Groodt : he was fond of adventure, he loved the
marvellous, and his imagination had become quite excited by
these tales of wonder. Besides, he had led such an uncomf ort-

270 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

able life at the doctor's, being subjected to the intolerable
thraldom of early hours, that he was delighted at the prospect
of having a house to himself, even though it should be a
haunted one. His offer was eagerly accepted, and it was de-
termined that he should mount guard that very night. His
only stipulation was, that the enterprise should be kept secret
from his mother ; for he knew the poor soul would not sleep a
wink, if she knew that her son was waging war with the
powers of darkness.

When night came on, he set out on this perilous expedition.
The old black cook, his only friend in the household, had pro-
vided him with a little mess for supper, and a rushlight; and
she tied round his neck an amulet, given her by an African
conjurer, as a charm against evil spirits. Dolph was escorted
on his way by the doctor and Peter de Groodt, who had agreed
to accompany him to the house, and to see him safe lodged.
The night was overcast, and it was very dark when they
arrived at the grounds which surrounded the mansion. The
sexton led the way with a lantern. As they walked along the
avenue of acacias, the fitful light, catching from bush to bush,
and tree to tree, often startled the doughty Peter, and made
him fall back upon his followers ; and the doctor grabbed still
closer hold of Dolph's arm, observing that the ground was
very slippery and uneven. At one time they were nearly put
to a total rout by a bat, which came flitting about the lan-
tern; and the notes of the insects from the trees, and the frogs
from a neighbouring pond, formed a most drowsy and doleful
concert.

The front door of the mansion opened with a grating sound,
that made the doctor turn pale. They entered a tolerably
large hall, such as is common in American country-houses,
and which serves for a sitting-room in warm weather. From
• hence they went up a wide staircase, that groaned and croaked
as they trod, every step making its particular note, like the
key of a harpsichord. This led to another hall on the second
story, from whence they entered the room where Dolph was
to sleep. It was large, and scantily furnished; the shutters
were closed ; but as they were much broken, there was no want
of a circulation of air. It appeared to have been that sacred
chamber, known among Dutch housewives by the name of
"the best bed-room;" which is tho host furnished room in the
house, but in which scarce any body is ever permitted to sleep.
Its splendour, however, was all at an end. There were a few

DOLPH HEYLIGER. 271

broken articles of furniture about the room, and in the cemre
stood a heavy deal table and a large arm-chair, both of which
had the look of being coeval with the mansion. The fire-place
was wide, and had been faced with Dutch tiles, representing
scripture stories; but some of them had fallen out of their
places, and lay shattered about the hearth. The sexton had lit
the rushlight; and the doctor, looking fearfully about the
room, was just exhorting Dolph to be of good cheer, and to
pluck up a stout heart, when a noise in the chimney, like
voices and struggling, struck a sudden panic into the sexton.
He took to his heels with the lantern ; the doctor followed hard
after him; the stairs groaned and creaked as they hurried
down, increasing their agitation and speed by its noises. The
front door slammed after them; and Dolph heard them scrab-
bling down the avenue, till the sound of their feet was lost in
the distance. That he did not join in this precipitate retreat,
might have been owing to his possessing a little more courage
than his companions, or perhaps that he had caught a glimpse
of the cause of their dismay, in a nest of chimney swallows,
that came tumbling down into the fire-place.

Being now left to himself, he secured the front door by a
strong bolt and bar ; and having seen that the other entrances
were fastened, he returned to his desolate chamber. Having
made his supper from the basket which the good old cook had
provided, he locked the chamber door, and retired to rest on a
mattress in one corner. The night was cann and still; and
nothing broke upon the profound quiet but the lonely chirping
of a cricket from the chimney of a distant chamber. The
rushlight, which stood in the centre of the deal table, shed a
feeble yellow ray, dimly illumining the chamber, and making
uncouth shapes and shadows on the walls, from the clothes
which Dolph had thrown over a chair.

With all his boldness of heart, there was something subduing
in this desolate scene ; and he felt his spirits flag within him,
as he lay on his hard bed and gazed about the room. He was
turning over in his mind his idle habits, his doubtful prospects,
and now and then heaving a heavy sigh, as he thought on his
poor old mother; for there is nothing like the silence and lone-
liness of night to bring dark shadows over the brightest mind.
By-and-by, he thought he heard a sound as if some one was
walking below stairs. He listened, and distinctly heard a step
on the great staircase. It, approached solemnly and slowly,
tramp— tramp— tramp ! It was evidently the tread, of some

272 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

heavy personage; and yet how could he have got into the
house without making a noise? He had examined all the
fastenings, and was certain that every entrance was secure.
Still the steps advanced, tramp — tramp — tramp! It was evi-
dent that the person approaching could not be a robber — the
step was too loud and deliberate; a robber would either be
stealthy or precipitate. And now the footsteps had ascended
the staircase ; they were slowly advancing along the passage,
resounding through the silent and empty apartments. The
very cricket had ceased its melancholy note, and nothing
interrupted their awful distinctness. The door, which had
been locked on the inside, slowly swung open, as if self -moved.
The footsteps entered the room ; but no one was to be seen.
They passed slowly and audibly across it, tramp — tramp —
trump! but whatever made the sound was invisible. Dolph
rubbed his eyes, and stared about him ; he could see to every
part of the dimly -lighted chamber; all was vacant; yet still
he heard those mysterious footsteps, solemnly walking about
the chamber. They ceased, and all was dead silence. There
was something more appalling in this invisible visitation, than
there would have been in anything that addressed itself to the
eyesight. It was awfully vague and indefinite. He felt his
heart beat against liis ribs; a cold sweat broke out upon his
forehead; he lay for some time in a state of violent agitation;
nothing, however, occurred to increase his alarm. His light
gradually burnt down into the socket, and he fell asleep.
When he awoke it was broad daylight ; the sun was peering
through the cracks of the window-shutters, and the birds were
merrily singing about the house. The bright, cheery day soon
put to flight all the terrors of the preceding night. Dolph
laughed, or rather tried to laugh, at all that had passed, and
endeavoured to persuade himself that it was a mere freak of
the imagination, conjured up by the stories he had heard ; but
he was a little puzzled to find the door of his room locked on
the inside, notwithstanding that he had positively seen it
swing open as the footsteps had entered. He returned to town
in a state of considerable perplexity ; but he determined to say
nothing on the subject, until his doubts were either confirmed
or removed by another night's watching. His silence was a
grievous disappointment to the gossips who had gathered at
the doctor's mansion. They had prepared their minds to hear
direful tales; and they were almost in a rage at being assured
that he had nothing to relate.

DOLPH HEYLIGEB. 273

The next night, then, Dolph repeated his vigil. He now
entered the house with some trepidation. He was particular
in examining the fastenings of all the doors, and securing them
well. He locked the door of his chamber, and placed a chair
against it ; then, having despatched his supper, he threw him-
self on his mattress and endeavoured to sleep. It was all in
vain— a thousand crowding fancies kept him waking. The
time slowly dragged on, as if minutes were spinning out them-
selves into hours. As the night advanced, he grew more and
more nervous ; and he almost started from his couch, when he
heard the mysterious footstep again on the staircase. Up it
came, as before, solemnly and slowly, tramp — tramp — tramp !
It approached along the passage ; the door again swung open,
as if there had been neither lock nor impediment, and a strange-
looking figure stalked into the room. It was an elderly man,
large and robust, clothed in the old Flemish fashion. He had
on a kind of short cloak, with a garment under it, belted
round the waist; trunk hose, with great bunches or bows at
the knees ; and a pair of russet boots, very large at top, and
standing widely from his legs. His hat was broad and slouched,
with a feather trailing over one side. His iron-gray hair hung
in thick masses on his neck ; and he had a short grizzled beard.
He walked slowly round the room, as if examining that all was
safe; then, hanging his hat on a peg beside the door, he sat
down in the elbow-chair, and, leaning his elbow on the table,
he fixed his eyes on Dolph with an unmoving and deadening
stare.

Dolph was not naturally a coward ; but he had been brought
up in an implicit belief in ghosts and goblins. A thousand
stories came swarming to his mind, that he had heard about
this building ; and as he looked at this strange personage, with
his uncouth garb, his pale visage, his grizzly beard, and his
fixed, staring, fish-like eye, his teeth began to chatter, his hair
to rise on his head, and a cold sweat to break out all over his
body. How long he remained in this situation he could not
tell, for he was like one fascinated. He could not take his gaze
off from the spectre; but lay staring at him with his whole
intellect absorbed in the contemplation. The old man remained
seated behind the table, without stirring or turning an eye,
always keeping a dead steady glare upon Dolph. At length
the household cock from a neighbouring farm clapped his
wings, and gave a loud cheerful crow that rung over the fields.
At the sound, the old man slowly rose and took down his hat

274 SRACEBRIDOE HALL.

from the peg; the door opened and closed after him; he wad
heard to go slowly down the staircase —tramp — tramp — tramp !
— and when he had got to the bottom, all was again silent.
Dolph lay and listened earnestly; counted every footfall;
listened and listened if the steps should return — until, ex-
hausted by watching and agitation, he fell into a troubled
sleep.

Daylight again brought fresh courage and assurance. He
would fain have considered all that had passed as a mere
dream ; yet there stood the chair in which the unknown had
seated himself; there was the table on which he had leaned;
there was the peg on which he had hung his hat ; and there
was the door, locked precisely as he himself had locked it, with
the chair placed against it. He hastened down-stairs and
examined the doors and windows ; all were exactly in the same
state in which he had left them, and there was no apparent
way by which any being could have entered and left the house
without leaving some trace behind. "Pooh!" said Dolph to
himself, "it was all a dream;" — but it would not do; the more
he endeavoured to shake the scene off from his mind, the
more it haunted him.

Though he persisted in a strict silence as to all that he had seen
or heard, yet his looks betrayed the uncomfortable night that
he had passed. It was evident that there was something won-
derful hidden under this mysterious reserve. The doctor took
him into the study, locked the door, and sought to have a full
and confidential communication ; but he could get nothing out
of him. Frau Ilsy took him aside into the pantry, but to as
little purpose ; and Peter de Groodt held him by the button for
a full hour in the church-yard, the very place to get at the
bottom of a ghost story, but came off not a whit wiser than the
rest. It is always the case, however, that one truth concealed
makes a dozen current lies. It is like a guinea locked up in a
bank, that has a dozen paper representatives. Before the day
was over, the neighbourhood was full of reports. Some said
that Dolph Heyliger watched in the haunted house with pistols
loaded with silver bullets ; others, that he had a long talk with
the spectre without a head ; others, that Doctor Knipperhausen
and the sexton had been hunted down the Bowery lane, and
quite into town, by a legion of ghosts of their customers. Some
shook their heads, and thought it a shame that the doctor
should put Dolph to pass the night alone in that dismal house,
Where he might be spirited away, no one knew whither; while

DOLPH BEYLIGm. 275

others observed, with a shrug, that if the devil did carry off
the youngster, it would be but taking his own.

These rumours at length reached the ears of the good Dame
Heyliger, and, as may be supposed, threw her into a terrible
alarm. For her son to have opposed himself to danger from
living foes, would have been nothing so dreadful in her eyes as
to dare alone the terrors of the haunted house. She hastened
to the doctor's, and passed a great part of the day in attempt-
ing to dissuade Dolph from repeating his vigil ; she told him a
score of tales, which her gossiping friends had just related to
her, of persons who had been carried off when watching alone
in old ruinous houses. It was all to no effect. Dolph's pride,
as well as curiosity, was piqued. He endeavoured to calm the
apprehensions of his mother, and to assure her that there was
no truth in all the rumours she had heard ; she looked at him
dubiously, and shook her head ; but finding his determination
was not to be shaken, she brought him a little thick Dutch Bible,
with brass clasps, to take with him, as a sword wherewith to
fight the powers of darkness ; and, lest that might not be suffi-
cient, the housekeeper gave him the Heidelburgh catechism by
way of dagger.

The next night, therefore, Dolph took up his quarters for the
third time in the old mansion. Whether dream or not, the
same thing was repeated. Towards midnight, when every
thing was still, the same sound echoed through the empty
halls — tramp — tramp— tramp ! The stairs were again ascended ;
the door again swung open ; the old man entered, walked round
the room, hung up his hat, and seated himself by the table.
The same fear and trembling came over poor Dolph, though
not in so violent a degree. He lay in the same way, motion-
less and fascinated, staring at the figure, which regarded him,
as before, with a dead, fixed, chilling gaze. In this way they
remained for a long time, till, by degrees, Dolph's cour-
age began gradually to revive. Whether alive or dead, this
being had certainly some object in his visitation; and he re-
collected to have heard it said, that spirits have no power to
speak until they are spoken to. Summoning up resolution,
therefore, and making two or three attempts before he could
get his parched tongue in motion, he addressed the unknown
in the most solemn form of adjuration that he could
recollect, and demanded to know what was the motive of his
visit.

No sooner had he finished, than the old man rose, took

276 LRACEBR1DGB HALL.

down his hat, the door opened, and he went out, looking back
upon Dolph just as he crossed the threshold, as if expecting
him to follow. The youngster did not hesitate an instant. He
took the candle in his hand, and the Bible under his arm, and
obeyed the tacit invitation. The candle emitted a feeble,
uncertain ray; but still he could see the figure before him,
slowly descend the stairs. He followed, trembling. When it
had reached the bottom of the stairs, it turned through the
hall towards the back door of the mansion. Dolph held the
light over the balustrades; but, in his eagerness to catch a
sight of the unknown, he flared his feeble taper so suddenly,
that it went out. Still there was sufficient light from the pule
moonbeams, that fell through a narrow window, to give him
an indistinct view of the figure, near the door. He followed,
therefore, down-stairs, and turned towards the place ; but when
he had got there, the unknown had disappeared. The door
remained fast barred and bolted ; there was no other mode of
exit; yet the being, whatever he might be, was gone. He
unfastened the door, and looked out into the fields. It was a
hazy, moonlight night, so that the eye could distinguish objects
at some distance. He thought he saw the unknown in a foot-
path that led from the door. He was not mistaken ; but how
had he got out of the house? He did not pause to think, but
followed on. The old man proceeded at a measured pace, with-
out looking about him, his footsteps sounding on the hard
ground. He passed through the orchard of apple-trees that
stood near the house, always keeping the footpath. It led to
a well, situated in a little hollow, which had supplied the farm
with water. Just at this well, Dolph lost sight of him. He
rubbed his eyes, and looked again ; but nothing was to be seen
of the unknown. He reached the well, but nobody was there.
All the surrounding ground was open and clear ; there was no
bush nor hiding-place. He looked down the well, and saw, at
a great depth, the reflection of the sky in the still water. After
remaining here for some time, without seeing or hearing any
thing more of his mysterious conductor, he returned to the
house, full of awe and wonder. He bolted the door, groped hid
way back to bed, and it was long before he could compose him-
self to sleep.

His dreams were strange and troubled. He thought he was
following the old man along the side of a great river, until they
came to a vessel that was on the point of sailing; and that his
conductor led him on board and vanished. He remembered

DOLPH HEYLIGER. 277

the commander of the vessel, a short swarthy man, with
crisped black hair, blind of one eye, and lame of one leg; but
the rest of his dream was very confused. Sometimes he was
sailing; sometimes on shore; now amidst storms and tem-
pests, and now wandering quietly in unknown streets. The
figure of the old man was strangely mingled up with the in-
cidents of the dream ; and the whole distinctly wound up by
his finding himself on board of the vessel again, returning
home, with a great bag of money !

When he woke, the gray, cool light of dawn was streaking
the horizon, and the cocks passing the reveil from farm to farm
throughout the country. He rose more harassed and perplexed
than ever. He was singularly confounded by all that he had
seen and dreamt, and began to doubt whether his mind was
not affected, and whether all that was passing in his thoughts
might not be mere feverish fantasy. In his present state of
mind, he did not feel disposed to return immediately to the
doctor's, and undergo the cross-questioning of the household.
He made a scanty breakfast, therefore, on the remains of the
last night's provisions, and then wandered out into the fields to
meditate on all that had befallen him. Lost in thought, he
rambled about, gradually approaching the town, until the
morning was far advanced, when he was roused by a hurry
and bustle around him. He found himself near the water's
edge, in a throng of people, hurrying to a pier, where there
was a vessel ready to make sail. He was unconsciously car-
ried along by the impulse of the crowd, and found that it was
a sloop, on the point of sailing up the Hudson to Albany.
There was much leave-taking and kissing of old women and
children, and great activity in carrying on board baskets of
bread and cakes, and provisions of all kinds, notwithstanding
the mighty joints of meat that dangled over the stern ; for a
voyage to Albany was an expedition of great moment in those
days. The commander of the sloop was hurrying about, and
giving a world of orders, which were not very strictly attend-
ed to ; one man being busy in lighting his pipe, and another
in sharpening his snicker-snee.

The appearance of the commander suddenly caught Dolph's
attention. He was short and swarthy, with crisped black
hair ; blind of one eye, and lame of one leg — the very com-
mander that he had seen in his dream ! Surprised and aroused,
he considered the scene more attentively, and recalled still
further traces of his dream: the appearance of the vessel, of

278 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

the river, and of a variety of other objects, accorded with tha
imperfect images vaguely rising to recollection.

As he stood musing on these circumstances, the captain
suddenly called out to him in Dutch, "Step on board, young
man, or you'll be left behind 1" He was startled by the sum-
mons ; he saw that the sloop was cast loose, and was actually
moving from the pier; it seemed as if he was actuated by some
irresistible impulse; he sprang upon the deck, and the next
moment the sloop was hurried off by the wind and tide.
Dolph's thoughts and f eelings were all in tumult and confusion.
He had been strongly worked upon by the events that had
recently befallen him, and could not but think that there was
some connexion between his present situation and his last
night's dream. He felt as if he was under supernatural in-
fluence ; and he tried to assure himself with an old and favour-
ite maxim of his, that " one way or other, all would turn out
for the best." For a moment, the indignation of the doctor at
his departure without leave, passed across his mind — but that
was matter of little moment. Then he thought of the distress
of his mother at his strange disappearance, and the idea gave
him a sudden pang ; ho would have entreated to be put on
shore; but he knew with such wind and tide the entreaty
would have been in vain. Then, the inspiring love of novelty
and adventure came rushing in full tide through his bosom ; he
felt himself launched strangely and suddenly on the world, and
under full way to explore the regions of wonder that lay up
this mighty river, and beyond those blue mountains that had
bounded his horizon since childhood. While he was lost in this
whirl of thought, the sails strained to the breeze ; the shores
seemed to hurry away behind him ; and, before he perfectly
recovered his self-possession, the sloop was ploughing her way
past Spiking-devil and Yonkers, and the tallest chimney of the
Manhattoes had faded from his sipht.

I have said, that a voyage up the Hudson in those days was
an undertaking of some moment; indeed, it was as much
thought of as a voyage to Europe is at present. The sloops
were often many days on the way ; the cautious navigators
taking in sail when it blew fresh, and coming to anchor at
night ; and stopping to send the boat ashore for milk for tea,
without which it was impossible for the worthy old lady pas-
sengers to subsist. And there were the much-talked-of perils
of the Tappaan Zee, and the highlands. In short, a prudent
Dutch burgher would talk of such a voyage for months, and

DOLPH HEYLIGER. 279

even years, beforehand ; and never undertook it without put-
ting his affairs in order, making his will, and having prayers
said for him in the Low Dutch churches.

In the course of such a voyage, therefore, Dolph was satisfied
he would have time enough to reflect, and to make up his mind
as to what he should do when he arrived at Albany. The cap-
tain, with his bund eye and lame leg, would, it is true, bring his
strange dream to mind, and perplex him sadly for a few mo-
ments; but, of late, his life had been made up so much of
dreams and realities, his nights and days had been so jumbled
together, that he seemed to be moving continually in a de-
lusion. There is always, however, a kind of vagabond con-
solation in a man's having nothing in this world to lose ; with
this Dolph comforted his heart, and determined to make the
most of the present enjoyment.

In the second day of the voyage they came to the high-
lands. It was the latter part of a calm, sultry day, that they
floated gently with the tide between these stern mountains.
Theie was that perfect quiet which prevails over nature in
the languor of summer heat ; the turning of a plank, or the
accidental falling of an oar on deck, was echoed from Mie
mountain side and reverberated along the shores; and if by
chance the captain gave a shout of command, there were airy
tongues that mocked it from every cliff .

Dolph gazed about him in mute delight and wonder, at these
scenes of nature's magnificence. To the left the Dunderberg
reared its woody precipices, height over height, forest over
forest, away into the deep summer sky. To the right strutted
forth the bold promontory of Anthony's Nose, with a solitary
eagle wheeling about it ; while beyond, mountain succeeded to
mountain, until they seemed to lock their arms together, and
confine this mighty river in their embraces. There was a feel-
ing of quiet luxury in gazing at the broad, green bosoms here
and there scooped out among the precipices ; or at woodlands
high in air, nodding over the edge of some beetling bluff, and
their foliage all transparent in the yellow sunshine.

In the midst of his admiration, Dolph remarked a pile of
bright, snowy clouds peering above the western heights. It
was succeeded by another, and another, each seemingly push-
ing onwards its predecessor, and towering, with dazzling bril-
liancy, in the deep-blue atmosphere : and now muttering peals
of thunder were faintly heard rolling behind the mountains.
The river, hitherto still and glassy, reflecting pictures of the

280 BRACEBRIDOE EAT.L.

sky and land, now showed a dark ripple at a distance, as tho
breeze came creeping up it. The fish-hawks wheeled and
screamed, and sought their nests on the high dry trees ; the
crows flew clamorously to the crevices of the rocks, and all
nature seemed conscious of the approaching thunder-gust.

The clouds now rolled in volumes over the mountain tops;
their summits still bright and snowy, but the lower parts of an
inky blackness. The rain began to patter down in broad and
scattered drops ; the wind freshened, and curled up the waves ;
at length it seemed as if the bellying clouds were torn open by
the mountain tops, and complete torrents of rain came rattling
down. The lightning leaped from cloud to cloud, and streamed
quivering against the rocks, splitting and rending the stoutest
forest trees. The thunder burst in tremendous explosions ; the
peals were echoed from mountain to mountain; they crashed
upon Dunderberg, and rolled up the long defile of the high-
lands, each headland making a new echo, until old Bull hill
seemed to bellow bark the storm.

For a time the scudding rack and mist, and the sheeted rain.
almost hid the landscape from the sight. There was a fearful
gloom, illumined still more fearfully by the streams of light-
ning which ghttered among the rain-drops. Never had Dolph
beheld such an absolute warring of the elements: it seemed as
if the storm was tearing and rending its way through this
mountain defile, and had brought all the artillery of heaven
into action.

The vessel was hurried on by the increasing wind, until she
came to where the river makes a sudden bend, the only one in
the whole course of its majestic career.* Just as they turned
the point, a violent flaw of wir.d came sweeping down a moun-
tain gully, bending the forest before it, and, in a moment, lash-
ing up the river into white froth and foam. The captain saw
the danger, and cried out to lower the sail. Before the order
could be obeyed, the flaw struck the sloop, and threw her on
her beam-ends. Everything was now fright and confusion:
the flapping of the sails, the whistling and rushing of the wind,
the bawling of the captain and crew, the shrieking of the pas-
sengers, all mingled with the rolling and bellowing of the thun-
der. In the midst of the uproar, the sloop righted; at the
same tune the mainsail shifted, the boom came sweeping the

* This muni have been the bend at West-Point.

DOLPH HEYLIOER. 281

quarter-deck, and Dolph, who was gazing unguardedly at the
clouds, found himself, in a moment, floundering in the river.

For once in his life, one of his idle accomplishments was of
use to him. The many truant hours which he had devoted to
sporting in the Hudson, had made him an expert swimmer;
yet, with all his strength and skill, he found great difficulty in
reaching the shore. His disappearance from the deck had not
been noticed by the crew, who were all occupied by their own
danger. The sloop was driven along with inconceivable rapid-
ity. She had hard work to weather a long promontory on the
eastern shore, round which the river turned, and which com-
pletely shut her from Dolph's view.

It was on a point of the western shore that he landed, and,
scrambling up the rocks, he threw himself, faint and exhausted,
at the foot of a tree. By degrees, the thunder-gust passed
over. The clouds rolled away to the east, where they lay piled
in feathery masses, tinted with the last rosy rays of the sun.
The distant play of the lightning might be seen about the dark
bases, and now and then might be heard the faint muttering of
the thunder. Dolph rose, and sought about to see if any path
led from the shore ; but all was savage and trackless. The
rocks were piled upon each other ; great trunks of trees lay
shattered about, as they had been blown down by the strong
winds which draw through these mountains, or had fallen
through age. The rocks, too, were overhung with wild vines
and briers, which completely matted themselves together, and
opposed a barrier to all ingress; every movement that he
made, shook down a shower from the dripping foliage. He
attempted to scale one of these almost perpendicular heights ;
but, though strong and agile, he found it an Herculean under-
taking. Often he was supported merely by crumbling pro-
jections of the rock, and sometimes he clung to roots and
branches of trees, and hung almost suspended in the air. The
wood-pigeon came cleaving his whistling flight by him, and
the eagle screamed from the brow of the impending cliff. As
he was thus clambering, he was on the point of seizing hold of
a shrub to aid his ascent, when something rustled among the
leaves, and he saw a snake quivering along like lightning,
almost from under his hand. It coiled itself up immediately,
in an attitude of defiance, with flattened head, distended jaws,
and quickly-vibrating tongue, that played like a little flame
about its mouth. Dolph's heart turned faint within him, and
he had well-nigh let go his hold, and tumbled down the preci-

282 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

pice. The serpent stood on the defensive but for an instant ; it
was an instinctive movement of defence; and finding there
was no attack, it glided away into a cleft of the rock. Dolph's
eye followed with fearful intensity; and he saw at a glance
that he was in the vicinity of a nest of adders, that lay knot-
ted, and writhing, and hissing in the chasm. He hastened
with all speed to escape from so frightful a neighbourhood.
His imagination was full of this new horror ; he saw an adder
in every curling vine, and heard the tail of a rattlesnake in
every dry leaf that rustled.

At length he succeeded in scrambling to the summit of a
precipice ; but it was covered by a dense forest. Wherever he
could gain a look-out between the trees, he saw that the coast
rose in heights and cliffs, one rising beyond another, until
huge mountains overtopped the whole. There were no signs
of cultivation, nor any smoke curling amongst the trees, to
indicate a human residence. Every thing was wild and solitary.
As he was standing on the edge of a precipice that overlooked
a deep ravine fringed with trees, his feet detached a great frag-
ment of rock; it fell, crashing its way through the tree tops,
down into the chasm. A loud whoop, or rather yell, issued
from the bottom of the glen ; the moment after, there was the
report of a gun; and a ball came whistling over his head,
cutting the twigs and leaves, and burying itself deep in the
bark of a chestnut-tree.

Dolph did not wait for a second shot, but made a precipitate
retreat ; fearing every moment to hear the enemy in pursuit.
He succeeded, however, in returning unmolested to the shore,
and determined to penetrate no farther into a country so beset
with savage perils.

He sat himself down, dripping, disconsolately, on a wet stone.
What was to be done? Where was he to shelter himself? The
hour of repose was approaching ; the birds were seeking their
nests, the bat be.-in to flit about in the twilight, and the night-
hawk soaring high in heaven, seemed to be calling out the stars.
Night gradually closed in, and wrapped every thing in gloom -,
and though it was the latter part of summer, yet the breeze,
stealing along the river, and among these dripping forests, was
chilly and penetrating, especially to a half -drowned man.

As he sat drooping and despondent in this comfortless con-
dition, he perceived a light gleaming through the trees near
the shore, where the winding of the river made a deep bay. It
cheered him with the hopes that here might be some human

DOLPH HEYLIGER 283

habitation, where he might get something to appease the clam-
orous cravings of his stomach, and, what was equally neces-
sary in his shipwrecked condition, a comfortable shelter
for the night. It was with extreme difficulty that he made
his way towards the light, along ledges of rocks down
which he was in danger of sliding into the river, and over
great trunks of fallen trees; some of which had been blown
down in the late storm, and lay so thickly together, that
he had to struggle through their branches. At length he came
to the brow of a rock that overhung a small dell, from whence
the ligLt proceeded. It was from a fire at the foot of a great
tree, that stood in the midst of a grassy interval, or plat,
among the rocks. The fire cast up a red glare among the gray
crags and impending trees ; leaving chasms of deep gloom, that
resembled entrances to caverns. A small brook rippled close
by, betrayed by the quivering reflection of the flame. There
were two figures moving about the fire, and others squatted
before it. As they were between him and the light, they were
in complete shadow ; but one of them happening to move round
to the opposite side, Dolph was startled at perceiving, by the
full glare falling on painted features, and glittering on silver
ornaments, that he was an Indian. He now looked more nar-
rowly, and saw guns leaning against a tree, and a dead body
lying on the ground.

Dolph began to doubt whether he was not in a worse condi-
tion than before ; here was the very foe that had fired at him
from the glen. He endeavoured to retreat quietly, not caring to
entrust himself to these half- human beings in so savage and
lonely a place. It was too late : the Indian, with that eagle
quickness of eye so remarkable in his race, perceived something
stirring among the bushes on the rock : he seized one of the
guns that leaned against the tree ; one moment more, and Dolph.
might have had his passion for adventure cured by a bullet. I
He hallooed loudly, with the Indian salutation of friendship :
the whole party sprang upon their feet; the salutation was
returned, and the straggler was invited to join them at the
fire.

On approaching, he found, to his consolation, that the party
was composed of white men as well as Indians. One, who was
evidently the principal personage, or commander, was seated
on the trunk of a tree before the fire. He was a large, stout
man, somewhat advanced in life, but hale and hearty. His
face was bronzed almost to the colour of an Indian's ; he had

284 BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

strong but rather jovial features, an aquiline nose, and a mouth
shaped like a mastiff's. His face was half thrown in shade
by a broad hat, with a buck's-tail in it. Hig gray hair hung
short in his neck. He wore a hunting-frock, with Indian leg-
gings, and moccasons, and a tomahawk in the broad wampum
belt round his waist. As Dolph caught a distinct view of his
person and features, he was struck with something that re-
minded him of the old man of the haunted house. The ni.iu
before him, however, was different in his dress and age; he
was more cheery, too, in his aspect, and it was hard to define
where the vague resemblance lay— but a resemblance there cer-
tainly was. Dolph felt some degree of awe in approaching him ;
but was assured by the frank, hearty welcome with which he
was received. As he cast his eyes about, too, he was still further
encouraged, by perceiving that the dead body, which had
caused him some alarm, was that of a deer; and his satisfac-
tion was complete, hi discerning, by the savoury steams
which issued from a kettle suspended by a hooked stick over
the fire, that there was a part cooking for the evening's repast.

He now found that he had fallen in with a rambling hunting
party, such as often took place in those days among the set-
tlers along the river. The hunter is always hospitable; and
nothing makes men more social and unceremonious, than meet-
ing in the wilderness. The commander of the party poured
him out a dram of cheering liquor, which he gave him with a
merry leer, to warm his heart ; and ordered one of his follow-
ers to fetch some garments from a pinnace, which was moored
in a cove close by, while those in which our hero was dripping
might be dried before the fire.

Dolph found, as he had suspected, that the shot from the
glen, which had come so near giving him his quietus when on
the precipice, was from the party before him. He had nearly
crushed one of them by the fragment of rock which he had
detached ; and the jovial old hunter, in the broad hat and buck-
tail, had fired at the place where he saw the bushes move, sup-
posing it to be some wild animal. He laughed heartily at the
blunder; it being what is considered an exceeding good joke
among hunters; "but faith, my lad, "said he, "if I had but
caught a glimpse of you to take sight at, you would have fol-
lowed the rock. Antony Vander Heyden is seldom known to
miss his aim." These last words were at once a clue to Dolph's
curiosity ; and a few questions let him completely into the
character of the man before him, aud of his band of woodland

DOLPH HEYLIGER. 285

rangers. The commander in the broad hat and hunting-frock
was no less a personage than the Heer Antony Vander Heyden,
of Albany, of whom Dolph had many a time heard. He was,
in fact, the hero of many a story; being a man of singular
humours and whimsical habits, that were matters of wonder
to his quiet Dutch neighbours. As he was a man of property,
having had a father before him, from whom he inherited large
tracts of wild land, and whole barrels full of wampum, he could
indulge his humours without control. Instead of staying quietly
at home, eating and drinking at regular meal times ; amusing
himself by smoking his pipe on the bench before the door, and
then turning into a comfortable bed at night ; he delighted in
all kinds of rough, wild expeditions. He was never so happy
as when on a hunting party in the wilderness, sleeping under
trees or bark sheds, or cruising down the river, or on some wood-
land lake, fishing and fowling, and living the Lord knows how.

He was a great friend to Indians, and to an Indian mode of
life ; which he considered true natural liberty and manly enjoy-
ment. When at home, he had always several Indian hangers-
on, who loitered about his house, sleeping like hounds in the
sunshine, or preparing hunting and fishing-tackle for some new
expedition, or shooting at marks with bows and arrows.

Over these vagrant beings, Heer Antony had as perfect com-
mand as a huntsman over his pack ; though they were great
nuisances to the regular people of his neighbourhood. As he
was a rich man, no one ventured to thwart his humours ; in-
deed, he had a hearty, joyous manner about him, that made
him universally popular. He would troll a Dutch song, as he
tramped along the street ; hail every one a mile off ; and when
he entered a house, he would slap the good man familiarly on
the back, shake him by the hand till he roared, and kiss his
wife and daughters before his face — in short, there was no pride
nor ill-humour about Heer Antony.

Besides his Indian hangers-on, he had three or four humble
friends among the white men, who looked up to him as a patron,
and had the run of his kitchen, and the favour of being taken
with him occasionally on his expeditions. It was with a med-
ley of such retainers that he was at present on a cruise along
the shores of the Hudson, in a pinnace which he kept for his
own recreation. There were two white men with him, dressed
partly in the Indian style, with moccasons and hunting-shirts;
the rest of his crew consisted of four favourite Indians. They
had been prowling about the river, without any definite object,

286 SRACEBHIDGE HALL.

until they found themselves in the highlands ; where they had
passed two or three days, hunting the deer which still lingered
among these mountains.

"It is a lucky circumstance, young man," said Antony
Vander Heyden, "that you happened to be knocked overboard
to-day, as to-morrow morning we start early on our return
nome wards, and you might then have looked in vain fora meal
among the mountains — but come, lads, stir about! stirabout!
Let's see what prog we have for supper ; the kettle has boiled
long enough ; my stomach cries cupboard ; and I'll warrant our
guest is hi no mood to dally with his trencher."

There was a bustle now in the little encampment. One took
off the kettle, and turned a part of the contents into a huge
wooden bowl ; another prepared a flat rock for a table ; while a
third brought various utensils from the pinnace, which was
moored close by ; and Heer Antony himself brought a flask or
two of precious liquor from his own private locker — knowing
his boon companions too well to trust any of them with the key.

A rude but hearty repast was soon spread; consisting of
venison smoking from the kettle, with cold bacon, boiled Indian
corn, and mighty loaves of good brown household bread. Never
had Dolph made a more delicious repast ; and when he had
washed it down with two or three draughts from the Heer
Antony's flask, and felt the jolly liquor sending its warmth
through bis veins, and glowing round his very heart, he would
not have changed his situation, no, not with the governor of
the province.

The Heer Antony, too, grew chirping and joyous ; told half-
a-dozen fat stories, at which his white followers laughed
immoderately, though the Indians, as usual, maintained an
invincible gravity.

" This is your true life, my boy!" said he, slapping Dolph on
the shoulder; "a man is never a man till he can defy wind and
weather, range woods and wilds, sleep under a tree, and live
on bass-wood leaves 1"

And then would he sing a stave or two of a Dutch drinking
song, swaying a short squab Dutch bottle in his hand, while
bis myrmidons would join in chorus, until the woods echoed
again;— as the good old song has it:

"They all with a shout made the elements ring,

So soon as the office was o'er;
To feasting they went with true merriment,
And tippled strong liquor gillore."

DOLPH EETLIOER. 287

In tne midst of his jovialty, however, Heer Antony did not
lose sight of discretion. Though he pushed the bottle without
reserve to Dolph, yet he always took care to help his followers
himself, knowing the beings he had to deal with ; and he was
particular in granting but a moderate allowance to the Indians.
The repast being ended, the Indians having drunk then- liquor
and smoked their pipes, now wrapped themselves in their
blankets, stretched themselves on the ground with their feet to
the fire, and soon fell asleep, like so many tired hounds. The
rest of the party remained chatting before the fire, which the
gloom of the forest, and the dampness of the air from the late
storm, rendered extremely grateful and comforting. The con-
versation gradually moderated from the hilarity of supper-time,
and turned upon hunting adventures, and exploits and perils
in the wilderness ; many of which were so strange and improb-
able, that I will not venture to repeat them, lest the veracity
of Antony Vander Heyden and his comrades should be brought
into question. There were many legendary tales told, also,
about tlie river, and the settlements on its borders ; in which
valuable kind of lore, the Heer Antony seemed deeply versed.
As the sturdy bush- beater sat in the twisted root of a tree, that
served him for a kind of arm-chair, dealing forth these wild
stories, with the fire gleaming on his strongly-marked visage,
Dolph was again repeatedly perplexed by something that re-
minded him of the phantom of the haunted house ; some vague
resemblance, that could not be fixed upon any precise feature
or lineament, but which pervaded the general air of his coun-
tenance and figure.

The circumstance of Dolph's falling overboard being again
discussed, led to the relation of divers disasters and singular
mishaps that had befallen voyagers on this great river, particu-
larly in the earlier periods of colonial history ; most of which
the Heer deliberately attributed to supernatural causes. Dolph
stared at this suggestion ; but the old gentleman assured him
that it was very currently believed by the settlers along the
river, that these highlands were under the dominion of super-
natural and mischievous beings, which seemed to have taken
some pique against the Dutch colonists in the early time of the
settlement. In consequence of this, they have ever since taken
particular delight in venting their spleen, and indulging their
humours, upon the Dutch skippers ; bothering them with flaws,
head winds, counter currents, and all kinds of impediments ;
insomuch, that a Dutch navigator was always obliged to be

288 miACEBRIDGE HALL.

exceedingly wary and deliberate in his proceedings ; to come to
anchor at dusk ; to drop his peak, or take in sail, whenever he
saw a swag-bellied cloud rolling over the mountains ; in short,
to take so many precautions, that he was often apt to be an
incredible time in toiling up the river.

Some, he said, believed these mischievous powers of the air
to be evil spirits conjured up by the Indian wizards, in the early
times of the province, to revenge themselves on the strangers
who had dispossessed them of their country. They even
attributed to their incantations the misadventure which befell
the renowned Hendrick Hudson, when he sailed so gallantly up
this river in quest of a north-west passage, and, as he thought,
run his ship aground ; which they affirm was nothing more nor
less than a spell of these same wizards, to prevent his getting
to China in this direction.

The greater part, however, Heer Antony observed, accounted
for all the extraordinary circumstances attending this river,
and the perplexities of the skippers which navigated it, by the
old legend of the Storm-ship, which haunted Point-no-point.
On finding Dolph to be utterly ignorant of this tradition, the
Heer stared at him for a moment with surprise, and wondered
where he had passed his lif e, to be uninformed on so important
a point of history. To pass away the remainder of the even-
ing, therefore, he undertook the tale, as far as his memory
would serve, in the very words in which it had been written
out by Mynheer Selyne, an early poet of the New-Nederlandts.
Giving, then, a stir to the fire, that sent up its sparks among
the trees like a little volcano, he adjusted himself comfortably
in his root of a tree ; and throwing back his head, and closing
his eyes for a few moments, to summon up his recollection, he
related the following legend.

THE STORM-SHIP.

IN the golden age of the province of the New-Netherlands,
when it was under the sway of Wouter Van Twiller, otherwise
called the Doubter, the people of the Manhattoes were alarmed,
one sultry afternoon, just about the time of the summer solstice,
by a tremendous storm of thunder and lightning. The rain
descended in such torrents, as absolutely to spatter up and

THE STORM SHIP 289

smoke along the ground. It seemed as if the thunder rattled
and rolled over the very roofs of the houses ; the lightning was
seen to play about the church of St. Nicholas, and to strive three
times, in vain, to strike its weather-cock. Garret Van Home's
new chimney was split almost from top to bottom ; and Doffue
Mildeberger was struck speechless from his bald-faced mare,
just as he was riding into town. In a word, it was one of those
unparalleled storms, that only happen once within the memory
of that venerable personage, known in all towns by the appella-
tion of "the oldest inhabitant."

Great was the terror of the good old women of the Manhat-
toes. They gathered their children together, and took refuge
in the cellars ; after having hung a shoe on the iron point of
every bed-post, lest it should attract the lightning. At length
the storm abated ; the thunder sunk into a growl ; and the set-
ting sun, breaking from under the fringed borders of the clouds,
made the broad bosom of the bay to gleam like a sea of molten
gold.

The word was given from the fort, that a ship was standing
up the bay. It passed from mouth to mouth, and street to
street, and soon put the little capital in a bustle. The arrival
of a ship, in those early times of the settlement, was an event
of vast importance to the inhabitants. It brought them news
from the old world, from the land of their birth, from which
they were so completely severed : to the yearly ship, too, they
looked for their supply of luxuries, of finery, of comforts, and
almost of necessaries. The good vrouw could not have her
new cap, nor new gown, until the arrival of the ship ; the artist
waited for it for his tools, the burgomaster for his pipe and his
supply of Hollands, the school-boy for his top and marbles, and
the lordly landholder for the bricks with which he was to build
his new mansion. Thus every one, rich and poor, great and
small, looked out for the arrival of the ship. It was the great
yearly event of the town of New- Amsterdam ; and from one
end of the year to the other, the ship — the ship — the ship — was
the continual topic of conversation.

The news from the fort, therefore, brought all the populace
down to the battery, ,to behold the wished-f or sight. It was
not exactly the time when she had been expected to arrive, and
the circumstance was a matter of some speculation. Many
were the groups collected about the battery. Here and there
might be seen a burgomaster, of slow and pompous gravity,
giving his opinion with great confidence to a crowd of old

290 BRACEBRIDGE HALL

women and idle boys. At another place was a knot of old
weatherbeaten fellows, who had been seamen or fishermen in
their times, and were great authorities on such occasions ; these
gave different opinions, and caused great disputes among then*
several adherents : but the man most looked up to, and followed
and watched by the crowd, was Hans Van Pelt, an old Dutch
: sea-captain retired from service, the nautical oracle of the
t?lace. He reconnoitred the ship through an ancient telescope,
covered with tarry canvas, hummed a Dutch tune to himself,
and said nothing. A hum, however, trom Hans Van Pelt had
always more weight with the public than a speech from an-
other man.

In the meantime, the ship became more distinct to the naked
eye : she was a stout, round Dutch-built vessel, with high bow
and poop, and bearing Dutch colours. The evening sun gilded
her bellying canvas, as she came riding over the long waving
billows. The sentinel who had given notice of her approach,
declared, that he first got sight of her when she was in the cen-
tre of the bay ; and that she broke suddenly on his sight, just
as if she had come out of the bosom or the black thunder-cloud.
The bystanders looked at Hans Van Pelt, to see what he would
say to this report : Hans Van Pelt screwed his mouth closer to-
gether, and said nothing; upon which some shook their heads,
and others shrugged their shoulders.

The ship was now repeatedly hailed, but made no reply, and,
passing by the fort, stood on up the Hudson. A gun was
brought to bear on her, ond, with some difficulty, loaded and
fired by Hans Van Pelt, the garrison not being expert in artil-
lery. The shot seemed absolutely to pass through the ship, and
to skip along the water on the other side, but no notice was taken
of it ! What was strange, she had all her sails set, and sailed
right against wind and tide, which were both down the river.
Upon this Hans Van Pelt, who was likewise harbour-master,
ordered his boat, and set off to board her; but after rowing
two or three hours, he returned without success. Sometimes
he would get within one or two hundred yards of her, and
then, in a twinkling, she would be hah* a mile off. Some said
it was because his oarsmen, who were rather pursy and short-
winded, stopped every now and then to take breath, and spit
on their hands; but this, it is probable, was a mere scandal.
He got near enough, however, to see the crew ; who were all
dressed in the Dutch style, the officers in doublets and high
hats and feathers : not a word was spoken by any one on board j

TB& 8TORM-SBIP.

they stood as motionless as so many statues, and the ship
seemed as if left to her own government. Thus she kept on,
away up the river, lessening and lessening in the evening sun-
shine, until she faded from sight, like a little white cloud melt-
nig away in the summer sky.

The appearance of this ship threw the governor into one of
the deepest doubts that ever beset him in the whole course of
his administration. Fears were entertained for the security
of the infant settlements on the river, lest this might be an
enemy's ship in disguise, sent to take possession. The gover-
nor called together his council repeatedly to assist him with
their conjectures. He sat in his chair of state, built of timber
from the sacred forest of the Hague, and smoking his long jas-
mine pipe, and listened to all that his counsellors had to say on
a subject about which they knew nothing; but, in spite of all
the conjecturing of the sagest and oldest heads, the governor
still continued to doubt.

Messengers were despatched to different places on the river ;
but they returned without any tidings— the ship had made no
port. Day after day, and week after week, elapsed; but she
never returned down the Hudson. As, however, the- council
seemed solicitous for intelligence, they had it in abundance.
The captains of the sloops seldom arrived without bringing
eome report of having seen the strange ship at different parts
of the river; sometimes near the Pah'sadoes; sometimes off
Croton Point, and sometimes in the highlands ; but she never
was reported as having been seen above the highlands. The
crews of the sloops, it is true, generally differed among them-
selves in their accounts of these apparitions; but they may
have arisen from the uncertain situations in which they saw
her. Sometimes it was by the flashes of the thunder-storm
lighting up a pitchy night, and giving glimpses of her careering
across Tappaan Zee, or the wide waste of Haverstraw Bay. At
one moment she would appear close upon them, as if likely to
run them down, and would throw them into great bustle and
alarm ; but the next flash would show her far off, always sail-
ing against the wind. Sometimes, in quiet moonlight nights,
she would be seen under some high bluff of the highlands, all
in deep shadow, excepting her top-sails glittering hi the moon-
beams ; by the time, however, that the voyagers would reach
the place, there would be no ship to be seen ; and when they
had passed on for some distance, and looked back, behold!
there she was again with her top-sails in the moonshine 1 Her

292 BRACEBR1DGE HALL.

appearance -was always just after, or just before, or just in thi
midst of, unruly weather ; and she was known by all the skip-
pers and voyagers of the Hudson, by the name of " the storm-
ship."

These reports perplexed the governor and his council more
than ever ; and it would be endless to repeat the conjectures
land opinions that were uttered on the subject. Some quoted
'cases in point, of ships seen off the coast of New-England,
navigated by witches and goblins. Old Hans Van Pelt, who
had been more than once to the Dutch colony at the Cape of
Good Hope, insisted that this must be the Flying Dutchman
which had so long haunted Table Bay, but. being unable to
make port, had now sought another harbour. Others sug-
gested, that, if it really was a supernatural apparition, as there
was every natural reason to believe, it might be Hendrick
Hudson, and his crew of the Half -Moon; who, it was well-
known, had once run aground in the upper part of the river, in
seeking a north-west passage to China. This opinion had very
little weight with the governor, but it passed current out of
doors; for indeed it had already been reported, that Hendrick
Hudson and his crew haunted the Kaatskill Mountain ; and it
appeared very reasonable to suppose, that his ship might infest
the river, where the enterprise was baffled, or that it might
bear the shadowy crew to their periodical revels in the moun-
tain.

Other events occurred to occupy the thoughts and doubts of
the sage Wouter and his council, and the storm-ship ceased to
be a subject of deliberation at the board. It continued, how-
ever, to be a matter of popular belief and marvellous anecdote
through the whole time of the Dutch government, and particu-
larly just before the capture of New- Amsterdam, and the sub-
j jugation of the province by the English squadron. About that
time the storm-ship was repeatedly seen in the Tappaan Zee,
and about Weehawk, and even down as far as Hoboken ; and
her appearance was supposed to be ominous of the approaching
squall in public affairs, and the downfall of Dutch domination.

Since that time, we have no authentic accounts of her;
though it is said she still haunts the highlands and cruises
about Point-no-point. People who live along the river, insist
that they sometimes see her in summer moonlight ; and that in
a deep still midnight, they have heard the chant of her crew,
as if heaving the lead ; but sights and sounds are so deceptive
along the mountainous shoreB, and about the wide bays and

TEE STORM-SHIP. 293

long reaches of this great river, that I confess I have very
strong doubts upon the subject.

It is certain, nevertheless, that strange things have been seen
in these highlands in storms, which are considered as connected
with the old story of the ship. The captains of the river craft
talk of a little bulbous-bottomed Dutch goblin, in trunk hose
and sugar-loafed hat, with a speaking trumpet in his hand,
which they say keeps about the Dunderberg.* They declare
they have heard him, in stormy weather, in the midst of the
turmoil, giving orders in Low Dutch for the piping up of a
fresh gust of wind, or the rattling off of another thunder-clap.
That sometimes he has been seen surrounded by a crew of little
imps in broad breeches and short doublets ; tumbling head-over-
heels in the rack and mist, and playing a thousand gambols in
the air ; or buzzing like a swarm of flies about Antony's Nose ;
and that, at such times, the hurry-scurry of the storm was
always greatest. One time, a sloop, in passing by the Dunder-
berg, was overtaken by a thunder-gust, that came scouring
round the mountain, and seemed to burst just over the vessel.
Though tight and well ballasted, yet she laboured dreadfully,
until the water came over the gunwale. All the crew were
amazed, when it was discovered that there was a little white
sugar-loaf hat on the mast-head, which was known at once to
be that of the Heer of the Dunderberg. Nobody, however,
dared to climb to the mast-head, and get rid of this terrible
hat. The sloop continued labouring and rocking, as if she
would have rolled her mast overboard. She seemed in con-
tinual danger either of upsetting or of running on shore. In
this way she drove quite through the highlands, until she had
passed Pollopol's Island, where, it is said, the jurisdiction of
the Dunderberg potentate ceases. No sooner had she passed
this bourne, than the little hat, all at once, spun up into the air
like a top, whirled up all the clouds into a vortex, and hurried
them back to the summit of the Dunderberg, while the sloop
righted herself, and sailed on as quietly as if in a mill-pond.
Nothing saved her from utter wreck, but the fortunate circum-
stance of having a horse-shoe nailed against the mast — a wise
precaution against evil spirits, which has since been adopted by
all the Dutch captains that navigate this haunted river.

There is another story told of this foul-weather urchin, by

* i.e., the " Thunder-Mountain," so called from its echoes.

294 BRACEBR1DGE HALL.

Skipper Daniel Ouslestiek^r, of Fish-Hill, who was never known
to tell a lie. He declared, that, in a severe squall, he saw him
seated astride of his bowsprit, riding the sloop ashore, full butt
against Antony's Nose ; and that he was exorcised by Dominie
Van Gieson, of Esopus, who happened to be on board, and who
siing the hymn of St. Nicholas ; whereupon the goblin threw
himself up in the air like a ball, and went off in a whirlwind,
carrying away with him the nightcap of the Dominie's wife ;
which was discovered the next Sunday morning hanging on the
weather-cock of Esopus church steeple, at least forty miles off 1
After several events of this kind had taken place, the regular
skippers of the river, for a long time, did not venture to pass
the Dunderberg, without lowering their peaks, out of homage
to the Heer of the mountain ; and it was observed that all such
as paid this tribute of respect were suffered to pass unmolested.*

"Such," said Antony Vander Heyden, "are a few of the
stories written down by Selyne the poet concerning this storm-
ship; which he affirms to have brought this colony of mis-
chievous imps into the province, from some old ghost-ridden
country of Europe. I could give you a host more, if necessary ;
for all the accidents that so often befall tin- river craft in the
highlands, are said to be tricks played off by these imps of the
Dunderberg; but I see that you are nodding, so let us turn in
for the night."

The moon had just raised her silver horns above the round
back of old Bull-Hill, and lit up the gray rocks and shagged

• Among the superstitions which prevailed in the colonies during the early times
of the settlements, there seems to have been a singular one about phantom ships.
The superstitious fancies of men are always apt to turn upon those objects which
concern their daily occupations. The solitary ship, which, from year to year, came
like a raven in the wilderness, bringing to tin- inhabitants of a settlement tin
forts of life from the world from which they were cut off, was apt to be present to
their dreams, whether sleeping or waking. The accidental sight from shore, of a
sail gliding along the horizon, in those, as yet, lonely seas, was apt to be a matter
of much talk and speculation. There is mention made in one of the early New-
England writers, of a ship navigated by witches, with a groat horse that stood by
the mainmast. I have met with another story, somewhere, of a ship that drove on
shore, in fair, sunny, tranquil weather, with sails all set, and a table spread in the
cabin, as if to regale a number of guests, yet not a living being on board. These
phantom ships always sailed in the eye of the wind; or ploughed their way with great
velocity, making the smooth sea foam before their bows, when not a breath of air
was stirring.

Moore has finely wrought up one of these legends of the sea into a little tal«
which, within a small compass, contains the very essence of this species of super
natural action. I allude to bis Spectre-Ship bound to Dead-man's Isle.

THE STORM-SHIP. 295

forests, and glittered on the waving bosom of the river. The
night-dew was falling, and the late gloomy mountains began to
soften, and put on a gray aerial tint in the dewy light. The
hunters stirred the fire, and threw on fresh fuel to qualify the
damp of the night air. They then prepared a bed of branches
and dry leaves under a ledge of rocks, for Dolph ; while An-
tony Vander Heyden, wrapping himself up in a huge coat
made of skins, stretched himself before the fire. It was some
time, however, before Dolph could close his eyes. He lay con-
templating the strange scene before him : the wild woods and
rocks around — the fire, throwing fitful gleams on the faces of
the sleeping savages — and the Heer Antony, too, who so singu-
larly, yet vaguely reminded him of the nightly visitant to the
haunted house. Now and then he heard the cry of some
animal from the forest ; or the hooting of the owl ; or the notes
of the whip-poor-will, which seemed to abound among these
solitudes ; or the splash of a sturgeon, leaping out of the river,
and falling back full length on its placid surface. He con-
trasted all this with his accustomed nest in the garret-room of
the doctor's mansion; where the only sounds he heard at night
were the church-clock telling the hour; the drowsy voice of
the watchman, drawling out all was well ; the deep snoring of
the doctor's clubbed nose from below stairs ; or the cautious
labours of some carpenter rat gnawing in the wainscot. His
thoughts then wandered to his poor old mother: what would
she think of his mysterious disappearance? — what anxiety and
distress would she not suffer? This was the thought that
would continually intrude itself, to mar his present enjoyment.
It brought with it a feeling of pain and compunction, and he
fell asleep with the tears yet standing in his eyes.

Were this a mere tale of fancy, here would be a fine oppor-
tunity for weaving in strange adventures among these wild
mountains and roving hunters; and, after involving my hero
in a variety of perils and difficulties, rescuing him from them
all by some miraculous contrivance : but as this is absolutely a
true story, I must content myself with simple facts, and keep
to probabilities.

At an early hour the next day, therefore, after a hearty
morning's meal, the encampment broke up, and our adven-
turers embarked in the pinnace of Antony Vander Heyden.
There being no wind for the sails, the Indians rowed her
gently along, keeping time to a kind of chant of one of the
white men. The day was serene and beautiful ; the river with-

296 SRACEBRIDOE HALL.

out a wave ; and as the vessel cleft the glassy water, it left ft
long, undulating track behind. The crows, who had scented
the hunters1 banquet, were already gathering and hovering in
the air, just where a column of thin, blue smoke, rising from
among the trees, showed the place of their last night's quarters.
As they coasted along the bases of the mountains, the Heer
Antony pointed out to Dolph a bald eagle, the sovereign of
these regions, who sat perched on a dry tree that projected
over the river; and, with eye turned upwards, seemed to be
drinking in the splendour of the morning sun. Their approach
disturbed the monarch's meditations. He first spread one
wing, and then the other; balanced himself for a moment; and
then, quitting his perch with dignified composure, wheeled
slowly over their heads. Dolph snatched up a gun, and sent
a whistling ball after him, that cut some of the feathers from
his wing; the report of the gun leaped sharply from rock to
rock, and awakened a thousand echoes ; but the monarch of
the air sailed calmly on, ascending higher and higher, and
wheeling widely as he ascended, soaring up the green bosom of
the woody mountain, until he disappeared over the brow of a
beetling precipice. Dolph felt in a manner rebuked by this
proud tranquillity, and almost reproached himself for having
so wantonly insulted this majestic bird. Heer Antony told
him, laughing, to remember that he was not yet out of the
territories of the lord of the Dunderberg; and an old Indian
shook his head, and observed that there was bad luck in killing
on eagle — the hunter, on the contrary, should always leave
him a portion of his spoils.

Nothing, however, occurred to molest them on their voyage.
They passed pleasantly through magnificent and lonely scenes,
until they came to where Pollopol's Island lay, like a floating
bower, at the extremity of the highlands. Here they landed,
until the heat of the day should abate, or a breeze spring up,
that might supersede the labour of the oar. Some prepared
the mid-day meal, while others reposed under the shade of the
trees in luxurious summer indolence, looking drowsily forth
upon the beauty of the scene. On the one side were the high-
lands, vast and cragged, feathered to the top with forests, and
throwing their shadows on the glassy water that dimpled at
their feet. On the other side was a wide expanse of the river,
like a broad lake, with long sunny reaches, and green head-
lands ; and the distant line of Shawungunk mountains waving
along a dear horizon, or checkered by a fleecy cloud.

TEE STORM-SHIP, 297

But I forbear to dwell on the particulars of their cruise along
the river ; this vagrant, amphibious lif e, careering across silver
sheets of water; coasting wild woodland shores; banqueting
on shady promontories, with the spreading tree overhead, the
river curling its light foam to one's feet, and distant mountain,
and rock, and tree, and snowy cloud, and deep-blue sky, all
mingling in summer beauty before one ; all this, though never
cloying in the enjoyment, would be but tedious in narration.

When encamped by the water-side, some of the party would
go into the woods and hunt ; others would fish : sometimes they
would amuse themselves by shooting at a mark, by leaping, by
running, by wrestling; and Dolph gained great favour in the
eyes of Antony Vander Heyden, by his skill and adroitness in
all these exercises ; which the Heer considered as the highest
of manly accomplishments.

Thus did they coast jollily on, choosing only the pleasant
hours for voyaging; sometimes in the cool morning dawn,
sometimes in the sober evening twilight, and sometimes when
the moonshine spangled the crisp curling waves that whispered
along the sides of their little bark. Never had Dolph felt so
completely in his element ; never had he met with any thing
so completely to his taste as this wild, hap-hazard life. He
was the very man to second Antony Vander Heyden in his
rambling humours, and gained continually on his affections.
The heart of the old bushwhacker yearned toward the young
man, who seemed thus growing up in his own likeness ; and as
they approached to the end of their voyage, he could not help
inquiring a little into his history. Dolph frankly told him his
course of life, his severe medical studies, his little proficiency,
and his very dubious prospects. The Heer was shocked to find
that such amazing talents and accomplishments were to be
cramped and buried under a doctor's wig. He had a sovereign
contempt for the healing art, having never had any other phy-
sician than the butcher. He bore a mortal grudge to all kinds
of study also, ever since he had been flogged about an unintel-
ligible book when he was a boy. But to think that a young fel-
low like Dolph, of such wonderful abilities, who could shoot,
fish, run, jump, ride, and wrestle, should be obliged to roll
pills and administer juleps for a living — 'twas monstrous ! He
told Dolph never to despair, but to " throw physic to the dogs;"
for a young fellow of his prodigious talents could never fail to
make his way. ' ' As you seem to have no acquaintance in Al-
bany," said Heer Antony, "you shall go home with me, and

298 BRACEBR1DQE HALL.

remain under my roof until you can look about you ; and in
the meantime we can take an occasional bout at shooting and
fishing, for it is a pity such talents should lie idle."

Dolph, who was at the mercy of chance, was not hard to
be persuaded. Indeed, on turning over matters in his mind,
which he did very sagely and deliberately, he could not but
think that Antony Vander Heyden was, " some how or other,"
connected with the story of the Haunted House ; that the misad-
venture in the highlands, which had thrown them so strangely
together, was, "some how or other," to work out something
good : in short, there is nothing so convenient as this ' ' some
how or other" way of accommodating one's self to circum-
stances; it is the main-stay of a heedless actor, and tardy
reasoner, like Dolph Heyliger; and he who can, in this loose,
easy way, link foregone evil to anticipated good, possesses a
secret of happiness almost equal to the philosopher's stone.

On their arrival at Albany, the sight of Dolph's companion
seemed to cause universal satisfaction. Many were the greet-
ings at the river side, and the salutations in the streets: the
dogs bounded before him; the boys whooped as he passed;
every body seemed to know Antony Vander Heyden. Dolph
followed on in silence, admiring the neatness of this worthy
burgh ; for in those days Albany was in all its glory, and in-
habited almost exclusively by the descendants of the original
Dutch settlers, for it had not as yet been discovered and colo-
nized by the restless people of New-England. Every thing
was quiet and orderly ; every thing was conducted calmly and
leisurely; no hurry, no bustle, no struggling and scrambling
for existence. The grass grew about the unpaved streets, and
relieved the eye by its refreshing verdure. The tall sycamores
or pendent willows shaded the houses, with caterpillars swing-
ing, in long silken strings, from their branches, or moths, flut-
tering about like coxcombs, in joy at their gay transforma-
tion. The houses were built in the old Dutch style, with the
gable-ends towards the street. The thrifty housewife was
seated on a bench before her door, in close crimped cap, bright
flowered gown, and white apron, busily employed in knitting.
The husband smoked his pipe on the opposite bench, and the
little pet negro girl, seated on the step at her mistress' feet,
was industriously plying her needle. The swallows sported
about the caves, or slammed along the streets, and brought
back some rich booty for their clamorous young ; and the little
housekeeping wren flew in and out of a Lilliputian house, of

THE STORM-SHIP. 299

an old hat nailed against the wall. The cows were coming
home, lowing through the streets, to be milked at their owner's
door ; and if, perchance, there were any loiterers, some negro
urchin, with a long goad, was gently urging them homewards.

As Dolph's companion passed on, he received a tranquil nod
from the burghers, and a friendly word from their wives ; all
calling him familiarly by the name of Antony ; for it was the
custom in this strong-hold of the patriarchs, where they had
all grown up together from childhoodj to call every one by the
Christian name. The Heer did not pause to have his usual
jokes with them, for he was impatient to reach his home. At
length they arrived at his mansion. It was of some magni-
tude, in the Dutch style, with large iron figures on the gables,
that gave the date of its erection, and showed that it had been
built in the earliest times of the settlement.

The news of Heer Antony's arrival had preceded him ; and
the whole household was on the look-out. A crew of negroes,
large and small, had collected in front of the house to receive
him. The old, white-headed ones, who had grown gray in his
service, grinned for joy and made many awkward bows and
grimaces, and the little ones capered about his knees. But the
most happy being in the household was a little, plump, bloom-
ing lass, his only child, and the darling of his heart. She came
bounding out of the house ; but the sight of a strange young
man with her father called up, for a moment, all the bashful-
ness of a homebred damsel. Dolph gazed at her with wonder
and delight ; never had he seen, as he thought, any thing so
comely in the shape of woman. She was dressed in the good
old Dutch taste, with long stays, and full, short petticoats, so
admirably adapted to show and set off the female form. Her
hair, turned up under a small round cap, displayed the fairness
of her forehead ; she had fine, blue, laughing eyes, a trim, slen-
der waist, and soft swell — but, in a word, she was a little
Dutch divinity ; and Dolph, who never stopt half-way in a new
impulse, fell desperately in love with her.

Dolph was now ushered into the house with a hearty wel-
come. In the interior was a mingled display of Heer Antony's
taste and habits, and of the opulence of his predecessors. The
chambers were furnished with good old mahogany ; the beau-
fets and cupboards glittered with embossed silver, and painted
china. Over the parlour fire-place was, as usual, the family
coat-of-arms, painted and framed; above which was a long
duck f owling-piece. flanked by an Indian pouch, and a powder*

300 BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

horn. The room was decorated with many Indian articles,
such as pipes of peace, tomahawks, scalping'-knives, hunting-
pouches, and belts of wampum ; and there were various kinds
of fishing tackle, and two or three fowling-pieces in the corners.
The household affairs seemed to be conducted, in some meas-
ure, after the master's humours ; corrected, perhaps, by a little
quiet management of the daughter's. There was a degree ci
patriarchal simplicity, and good-humoured indulgence. The
negroes came into the room without being called, merely to
look at their master, and hear of his adventures; they would
stand listening at the door until he had finished a story, and
then go off on a broad grin, to repeat it in the kitchen. A couple
of pet negro children were playing about the floor with the
dogs, and sharing with them their bread and butter. All the
domestics looked hearty and happy; and when the table W.MS
set for the evening repast, the variety and abundance of good
household luxuries bore testimony to the openhanded liberal-
ity of the Heer, and the notable housewifery of his daughter.

In the evening there dropped in several of the worthies of
the place, the Van Rennsellaers, and the Gansevoorts, and the
Rosebooms, and others of Antony Vander Heyden's intimates,
to hear an account of his expedition; for he was the Sindbad of
Albany, and his exploits and adventures were favourite topics
of conversation among the inhabitants. While these sat gossip-
ing together about the door of the hall, and telling long twilight
stories, Dolph was cozily seated, entertaining the daughter on
a window-bench. He had already got on intimate terms ; for
those were not tunes of false reserve and idle ceremony ; and,
besides, there is something wonderfully propitious to a lover's
suit, in the delightful dusk of a long summer evening; it gives
courage to the most timid tongue, and hides the blushes of
the bashful. The stars alone twinkled brightly ; and now and
then a fire-fly streamed his transient light before the win-
dow, or, wandering into the room, flew gleaming about tbe
ceiling.

What Dolph whispered in her ear, that long summer even-
ing, it is impossible to say : his words were so low and indistinct,
that they never reached the ear of the historian. It is proba-
ble, however, that they were to the purpose; for he had a
natural talent at pleasing the sex, and was never long in com-
pany with a petticoat without paying proper court to it. In
the meantime, the visitors, one by one, departed; Antony Van-
der Heyden, who had fairly talked himself silent, sat nodding

THIS STORM-SHIP. 301

alone in his chair by the door, when he was suddenly aroused
by a hearty salute with which Dolph Heyliger had unguardedly
rounded off one of his periods, and which echoed through the
still chamber like the report of a pistol. The Heer started up,
rubbed his eyes, called for lights, and observed, that it was
high time to go to bed; though, on parting for the night, he
1 squeezed Dolph heartily by the hand, looked kindly in his face,
and shook his head knowingly ; for the Heer well remembered
what he himself had been at the youngster's age.

The chamber in which our hero was lodged was spacious, and
panelled with oak. It was furnished with clothes-presses, and
mighty chests of drawers, well waxed, and glittering with
brass ornaments. These contained ample stock of family linen ;
for the Dutch housewives had always a laudable pride in show-
ing off their household treasures to strangers.

Dolph's mind, however, was too full to take particular note
of the objects around him ; yet he could not help continually
comparing the free, open-hearted cheeriness of this establish-
ment with the starveling, sordid, joyless housekeeping at Doc-
tor Knipperhausen's. Still there was something that marred
the enjoyment— the idea that he must take leave of his hearty
host and pretty hostess and cast himself once more adrift upon
the world. To linger here would be folly ; he should only get
deeper in love ; and for a poor varlet like himself to aspire to
the daughter of the great Heer Vander Heyden — it was mad-
ness to think of such a thing ! The very kindness that the girl
had shown towards him prompted him, on reflection, to hasten
his departure ; it would be a poor return for the frank hos-
pitality of his host to entangle his daughter's heart in an in-
judicious attachment. In a word, Dolph was like many other
young reasoners, of exceeding good hearts and giddy heads,
who think after they act, and act differently from what they
think ; who make excellent determinations overnight and for-
get to keep them the next morning.

"This is a fine conclusion, truly, of my voyage," said he, as
he almost buried himself in a sumptuous feather-bed, and drew
the fresh white sheets up to his chin. "Here am I, instead of
finding a bag of money to carry home, launched in a strange
place, with scarcely a stiver in my pocket ; and, what is worse,
have jumped ashore up to my very ears in love into the bar-
gain. However," added he, after some pause, stretching him-
self and turning himself in bed, ' ' I'm in good quarters for the
present, at least ; so I'll e'en enjoy the present moment, and let

802 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

the next take care of itself; 1 dare say all will work out, ' some
how or other,' for the best."

As he said these words, he reached out his hand to extinguish
the candle, when he was suddenly struck with astonishment
and dismay, for he thought he beheld the phantom of the
haunted house staring on him from a dusky part of the cham-
ber. A second look reassured him, as he perceived that wlK-.t
he had taken for the spectre was, in fact, nothing but a Flem-
ish portrait, that hung in a shadowy corner just behind a
clothes-press. It was, however, the precise representation of
his nightly visitor :— the same cloak and belted jerkin, the same
grizzled beard and fixed eye, the same broad slouched hat, with
a feather hanging over one side. Dolph now called to mind
the resemblance he had frequently remarked between his host
and the old man of the haunted house ; and was fully convinced
that they were in some way connected, and that some especial
destiny had governed his voyage. He lay gazing on the por-
trait with almost as much awe as he had gazed on the ghostly
original, until the shrill house-clock warned him of the lateness
of the hour. He put out the light ; but remained for a long
time turning over these curious circumstances and coincidences
in his mind, until he fell asleep. His dreams partook of the
nature of his waking thoughts. He fancied that he still lay
gazing on the picture, until, by degrees, it became animated ;
that the figure descended from the wall and walked out of the
room ; that he followed it and found himself by the well, to
which the old man pointed, smiled on him, and disappeared.

In the morning when Dolph waked, he found his host stand-
ing by his bed-side, who gave him a hearty morning's saluta-
tion, and asked him how he had slept. Dolph ansvored
cheerily ; but took occasion to inquire about the portrait that
hung against the wall. "Ah," said Heer Antony, "that's a
portrait of old Killian Vander Spiegel, once a burgomaster of
Amsterdam, who, on some popular troubles, abandoned Hol-
land and came over to the province during the government of
Peter Stuyvesant. He was my ancestor by the mother's side,
and an old miserly curmudgeon he was. When the English
took posseasion of New-Amsterdam in 1664, he retired into the
country. He fell into a melancholy, apprehending that his
wealth would be taken from him and that he would come to
beggary. He txirned all his property into cash, and used to
hide it away. He was for a year or two concealed in various
places, fancying himself sought after by the English, to strip

THE STORM-SHIP. 303

him of his wealth ; and finally was found dead in his bed one
morning, without any one being able to discover where he had
concealed the greater part of his money."

When his host had left the room, Dolph remained for some
time lost in thought. His whole mind was occupied by what
he had heard. Vander Spiegel was his mother's family name ;
and he recollected to have heard her speak of this very Killian
Vander Spiegel as one of her ancestors. He had heard her say,
too, that her father was Killian's rightful heir, only that the
old man died without leaving any thing to be inherited. It now
appeared that Heer Antony was likewise a descendant, and
perhaps an heir also, of this poor rich man ; and that thus the
Heyligers and the Vander Heydens were remotely connected.
"What," thought he, "if, after all, this is the interpretation of
my dream, that this is the way I am to make my fortune by
this voyage to Albany, and that I am to find the old man's
hidden wealth in the bottom of that well? But what an odd,
round-about mode of communicating the matter! Why the
plague could not the old goblin have told me about the well at
once, without sending me all the way to Albany to hear a story
that was to send me all the way back again?"

These thoughts passed through his mind while he was dressing.
He descended the stairs, full of perplexity, when the bright
face of Marie Vander Heyden suddenly beamed in smiles upon
him, and seemed to give him a clue to the whole mystery.
"After all," thought he, " the old goblin is in the right. If I
am to get his wealth, he means that I shall marry his pretty de-
scendant; thus both branches of the family will be again
united, and the property go on in the proper channel."

No sooner did this idea enter his head, than it carried con-
viction with it. He was now all impatience to hurry back and
secure the treasure, which, he did not doubt, lay at the bottom
of the well, and which he feared every moment might be dis-
covered by some other person. "Who knows," thought he,
"but this night-walking old fellow of the haunted house may
be in the habit of haunting every visitor, and may give a hint
to some shrewder fellow than myself, who will take a shorter
cut to the well than by the way of Albany?" He wished a
thousand times that the babbling old ghost was laid in the Eed
Sea, and his rambling portrait with him. He was in a perfect
fever to depart. Two or three days elapsed before any oppor-
tunity presented for returning down the river. They were ages
to Dolph, notwithstanding that he was basking in the smiles of

304 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

the pretty Marie, and daily getting more and more enamoured.

At length the very sloop from which he had been knocked
overboard, prepared to make sail. Dolph made an awkward
apology to his host for his sudden departure. Antony Vander
Heyden was sorely astonished. He had concerted half-a-dozen
excursions into the wilderness ; and his Indians were actually
preparing for a grand expedition to one of the lakes. He took
Dolph aside, and exerted his eloquence to get him to abandon
all thoughts of business, and to remain with him — but in vain ;
and he at length gave up the attempt, observing, " that it was
a thousand pities so fine a young man should throw himself
away." Heer Antony, however, gave him a hearty shake by
the hand at parting, with a favourite fowling-piece, and an
invitation to come to his house whenever he revisited Albany.
The pretty little Marie said nothing; but as he gave her a fare-
well kiss, her dimpled cheek turned pale, and a tear stood in
her eye.

Dolph sprang lightly on board of the vessel. They hoisted
sail; the wind was fair; they soon lost sight of Albany, and
its green hills, and embowered islands. They were wafted
gayly past the Kaatskill mountains, whose fairy heights were
bright and cloudless/ They passed prosperously through the
highlands, without any molestation from the Dunderberg
goblin and his crew; they swept on across Haverstraw Bay,
and by Croton Point, and through the Tappaan Zee, and
under the Palisadoes, until, in the afternoon of the third day,
they saw the promontory of Hoboken, hanging like a cloud in
the air; and, shortly after, the roofs of the Manhatt^es rising
out of the water.

Dolph's first care was to repair to his mother's house ; for he
was continually goaded by the idea of the uneasiness she must
experience on his account. He was puzzling his brains, as he
went along, to think how he should account for his absence,
without betraying the secrets of the haunted house. In the
midst of these cogitations, he entered the street in which his
mother's house was situated, when he was thunderstruck at
beholding it a heap of ruins.

There had evidently been a great fire, which had destroyed
several large houses, and the humble dwelling of poor Dame
Heyliger had been involved in the conflagration. The walls
were not so completely destroyed but that Dolph could distin-
guish some traces of the scene of his childhood. The fire-place,
about which he had often played, still remained, ornamented

TSB STOHM-SHIP. 305

with Dutch tiles, illustrating passages in Bible history, on
which he had many a time gazed with admiration. Among
the rubbish lay the wreck of the good dame's elbow-chair, from
which she had given him so many a wholesome precept ; and
hard by it was the family Bible, with brass clasps ; now, alas !
reduced almost to a cinder.

For a moment Dolph was overcome by this dismal sight, for
he was seized with the fear that his mother had perished in the
flames. He was relieved, however, from this horrible appre-
hension, by one of the neighbours who happened to come by,
and who informed him that his mother was yet alive.

The good woman had, indeed, lost every thing by this un-
looked-for calamity ; for the populace had been so intent upon
saving the fine furniture of her rich neighbours, that the little
tenement, and the little all of poor Dame Heyliger, had been
suffered to consume without interruption ; nay, had it not been
for the gallant assistance of her old crony, Peter de Groodt, the
worthy dame and her cat might have shared the fate of their
habitation.

As it was, she had been overcome with fright and affliction,
and lay ill in body, and sick at heart. The public, however,
had showed her its wonted kindness. The furniture of her rich
neighbours being, as far as possible, rescued from the flames ;
themselves duly and ceremoniously visited and condoled with
on the injury of their property, and their ladies commiserated
on the agitation of their nerves ; the public, at length, began to
recollect something about poor Dame Heyliger. She forthwith
became again a subject of universal sympathy; every body
pitied more than ever; and if pity could but have been coined
into cash— good Lord ! how rich she would have been !

It was now determined, in good earnest, that something
ought to be done for her without delay. The Dominie, there-
fore, put up prayers for her on Sunday, in which all the con-
gregation joined most heartily. Even Cobus Groesbeck, the
alderman, and Mynheer Milledollar, the great Dutch merchant,
stood up in their pews, and did not spare their voices on the
occasion ; and it was thought the prayers of such great men
could not but have their due weight. Doctor Knipperhausen,
too, visited her professionally, and gave her abundance of ad-
vice gratis, and was universally lauded for his charity. As to
her old friend, Peter de Groodt, he was a poor man, whose
pity, and prayers, and advice could be of but little avail, so he
gave her all that was in his power—he gave her shelter.

306 BRACEBRTDGE HALL.

To the humble dwelling of Peter de Groodt, then, did Dolph
turn his steps. On his way thither, he recalled all the tender-
ness and kindness of his simple-hearted parent, her indulgence
of his errors, her blindness to his faults; and then he be-
thought himself of his own idle, harum-scarum life. "I've
been a sad scape-grace," said Dolph, shaking his head sorrow-
fully. "I've been a complete sink-pocket, that's the truth of
it!— But," added he, briskly, and clasping his hands, " only let
her live — only let her live — and I'll show myself indeed a son !"

As Dolph approached the house, he met Peter de Groodt
coming out of it. The old man started back aghast, doubting
whether it was not a ghost that stood before him. It being
bright daylight, however, Peter soon plucked up heart, satis-
fied that no ghost dare show his face in such clear sunshine.
Dolph now learned from the worthy sexton the consternation
and rumour to which his mysterious disappearance had gm-n
rise. It had been universally believed that he had been
spirited away by those hobgoblin gentry that infested the
haunted house; and old Abraham Vandozer, who lived by tho
great button- wood trees, at the three-mile stone, affirmed, that
he had heard a terrible noise in the air, as he was going home
late at night, which seemed just as if a flight of wild geese were
overhead, passing off towards the northward. The haunted
house was, in consequence, looked upon with ten times more
awe than ever ; nobody would venture to pass a night in it for
the world, and even the doctor had ceased to make his expedi-
tions to it in the day-time.

It required some preparation before Dolph's return could be
made known to his mother, the poor soul having bewailed him
as lost ; and her spirits having been sorely broken down by a
number of comforters, who daily cheered her with stories of
ghosts, and of people carried away by the devil. He found
her confined to her bed, with the other member of the Hey-
liger family, the good dame's cat, purring beside her, but sadly
singed, and utterly despoiled of those whiskers which were the
glory of her physiognomy. The poor woman threw her arms
about Dolph's neck: " My boy! my boy! art thou still alive?"
For a time she seemed to have forgotten all her losses and
troubles, in her joy at his return. Even the sage grimalkin
showed indubitable signs of joy, at the return of the youngster.
She saw, perhaps, that they were a forlorn and undone family,
and felt a touch of that kindliness which fellow-sufferers only
know. But, in truth, cats are a slandered people ; they have

THE STORM SHIP. 307

more affection in them than the world commonly gives them
credit for.

The good dame's eyes glistened as she saw one being, at
least, beside herself, rejoiced at her son's return. " Tib knows
thee! poor dumb beast!" said she, smoothing down the mot-
tled coat of her favourite; then recollecting herself, with a
melancholy shake of the head, "Ah, my poor Dolph!" ex-
claimed she, "thy mother can help thee no longer! She can
no longer help herself ! What will become of thee, my poor
boy!"

"Mother," said Dolph, "don't talk in that strain ; I've bees
too long a charge upon you ; it's now my part to take care of
you in your old days. Come ! be of good heart ! you, and I,
and Tib, will all see better days. I'm here, you see, young,
and sound, and hearty ; then don't let us despair ; I dare say
things will all, some how or other, turn out for the best."

While this scene was going on with the Heyliger family, the
news was carried to Doctor Knipperhausen, of the safe return
of his disciple. The little doctor scarcely knew whether to re-
joice or be sorry at the tidings. He was happy at having the
foul reports which had prevailed concerning his country man-
sion thus disproved ; but he grieved at having his disciple, of
whom he had supposed himself fairly disencumbered, thus
drifting back, a heavy charge upon his hands. While he was
balancing between these two feelings, he was determined by
the counsels of Frau Hsy, who advised him to take advantage
of the truant absence of the youngster, and shut the door upon
him for ever.

At the hour of bed-time, therefore, when it was supposed the
recreant disciple would seek his old quarters, every thing was
prepared for his reception. Dolph, having talked his mother
into a state of tranquillity, sought the mansion of his quondam
master, and raised the knocker with a faltering hand. Scarce-
ly, however, had it given a dubious rap, when the doctor's
head, in a red night-cap, popped out of one window, and the
housekeeper's, in a white night-cap, out of another. He was
now greeted with a tremendous volley of hard names and hard
language, mingled with invaluable pieces of advice, such as are
seldom ventured to be given excepting to a friend in distress,
or a culprit at the bar. In a few moments, not a window in
the street but had its particular night-cap, Listening to the
shrill treble of Frau Ilsy, and the guttural croaking of Dr.
Knipperhausen ; and the word went from window to window,

308 SRACEBRTDOE HALL.

" Ah! here's Dolph Heyliger come back, and at his old pranks
again." In short, poor Dolph found he was likely to get
nothing from the doctor but good advice — a commodity so
abundant as even to be thrown out of the window ; so he was
fain to beat a retreat, and take up his quarters for the night
under the lowly roof of honest Peter de Groodt.

The next morning, bright and early, Dolph was at the
haunted house. Every thing looked just as he had left it.
The fields were grass-grown and matted, and it appeared as if
nobody had traversed them since his departure. With palpi-
tating heart, he hastened to the well. He looked down into it,
and saw that it was of great depth, with water at the bottom.
He had provided himself with a strong line, such as the fish-
ermen use on the banks of Newfoundland. At the end was a
heavy plummet and a large fish-hook. With this he began to
sound the bottom of the well, and to angle about in the water.
He found that the water was of some depth ; there appeared
also to be much rubbish, stones from the top having fallen in.
Several times his hook got entangled, and he came near break-
ing his line. Now and then, too, he hauled up mere trash,
such as the skull of a horse, an iron hoop, and a shattered
iron-bound bucket. He had now been several hours employed
without finding any thing to repay his trouble, or to encourage
him to proceed. He began to think himself a great fool, to be
thus decoyed into a wild-goose-chase by mere dreams, and
was on the point of throwing line and all into the well, and
giving up all further angling.

" One more cast of the line," said he, " and that shall be the
last." As he sounded, he felt the plummet slip, as it were,
through the interstices of loose stones ; and as he drew back
the line, he felt that the hook had taken hold of something
heavy. He had to manage his line with great caution, lest it
should be broken by the strain upon it. By degrees, the rub-
bish that lay upon the article which he had hooked gave way ;
he drew it to the surface of the water, and what was his rap-
ture at seeing something like silver glittering at the end of his
line ! Almost breathless with anxiety, he drew it up to the
mouth of the well, surprised at its great weight, and fearing
every instant that his hook would slip from its hold, and his
prize tumble again to the bottom. At length he landed it safe
beside the well. It was a great silver porringer, of an ancient
form, richly embossed, and with armorial bearings, similar to
those over his mother's mantel-piece, engraved on its side.

THE STORM-SHIP. 309

The lid was fastened down by several twists of wire ; Dolph
loosened them with a trembling hand, and on lifting the lid,
behold! the vessel was filled with broad golden pieces, of a
coinage which he had never seen before! It was evident he
had lit on the place where Killian Vander Spiegel had con-
coaled his treasure.

Fearful of being seen by some straggler, he cautiously retired,
and buried his pot of money in a secret place. He now spread
terrible stories about the haunted house, and deterred every
one from approaching it, while he made frequent visits to it on
stormy days, when no one was stirring in the neighbouring
fields; though, to tell the truth, he did not care to venture
there in the dark. For once in his life he was diligent and
industrious, and followed up his new trade of angling with
such perseverance and success, that in a little while he had
hooked up wealth enough to make him, in those moderate days,
a rich burgher for life.

It would be tedious to detail minutely the rest of this story:
— to tell how he gradually managed to bring his property into
use without exciting surpise and inquiry — how he satisfied all
scruples with regard to retaining the property, and at the same
time gratified his own feelings, by marrying the pretty Marie
Vander Heyden — and how he and Heer Antony had many a
merry and roving expedition together.

I must not omit to say, however, that Dolph took his mother
home to li ve with him, and cherished her in her old days. The
good dame, too, had the satisfaction of no longer hearing her
son made the theme of censure ; on the contrary, he grew daily
in public esteem ; every body spoke well of him and his wines,
and the lordliest burgomaster was never known to decline his
invitation to dinner. Dolph often related, at his own table,
the wicked pranks which had once been the abhorrence of the
town; but they were now considered excellent jokes, and the
gravest dignitary was fain to hold his sides when listening to
them. No one was more struck with Dolph's increasing merit,
than his old master the doctor ; and so forgiving was Dolph, that
he actually employed the doctor as his family physician, only
taking care that his prescriptions should be always thrown out
of the window. His mother had often her junto of old cronies,
to take a snug cup of tea with her in her comfortable little
parlour; and Peter de Groodt, as he sat by the fire-side, with
one of her grandchildren on his knee, would many a time con-
gratulate her upon her son turning out so great a man-, upou

310 BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

which the good old soul would wag her head with exultation,
and exclaim, "Ah, neighbour, neighbour! did I not say that
Dolph would one day or other hold up his head with the beet of
them?"

Thus did Dolph Heyliger go on, cheerily and prosperously,
growing merrier as he grew older and wiser, and completely
falsifying the old proverb about money got over the devil's
back ; for he made good use of his wealth, and became a distin-
guished citizen, and a valuable member of the community. He
was a great promoter of public institutions, such as beef -steak
societies and catch-clubs. He presided at all public dinners,
and was the first that introduced turtle from the West Indies.
He improved the breed of race-horses and game-cocks, and was
so great a patron of modest merit, that any one who could sing
a good song, or tell a good story, was sure to find a place at his
table.

He was a member, too, of the corporation, made several laws
for the protection of game and oysters, and bequeathed to the
board a large silver punch-bowl, made out of the identical
porringer before mentioned, and which is in the possession of
the corporation to this very day.

Finally, he died, in a florid old age, of an apoplexy, at a cor-
poration feast, and was buried with great honours in the yard
of the little Dutch church in Garden-street, where his tomb-
stone may still be seen, with a modest epitaph in Dutch, by his
friend Mynheer Justus Benson, an ancient and excellent poet of
the province.

The foregoing tale rests on better authority than most tales
of the kind, as I have it at second-hand from the lips of Dolph
Heyliger himself. He never related it till towards the latter
part of his life, and then in great confidence, (for he was very
discreet,) to a few of his particular cronies at his own table
over a supernumerary bowl of punch ; and, strange as the hob-
goblin parts of the story may seem, there never was a single
doubt expressed on the subject by any of his guests. It may
not be amiss, before concluding, to observe that, in addition to
his other accomplishments, Dolph Heyliger was noted for being
the ablest drawer of the long-bow in the whole province.

THE WEDDING. 3H

THE WEDDING.

No more, no more, much honour aye betide

The lofty bridegroom and the lovely bride;

That all of their succeeding days may say,

Each day appears like to a wedding-day. — BRAITHWAITE.

NOTWITHSTANDING the doubts and demurs of Lady Lillycraft,
tnd all the grave objections that were conjured up against the
month of May, yet the wedding has at length happily taken
place. It was celebrated at the village church, in presence of a
numerous company of relatives and friends, and many of the
tenantry. The Squire must needs have something of the old
ceremonies observed on the occasion; so, at the gate of the
church-yard, several little girls of the village, dressed hi white,
were in readiness with baskets of flowers, which they strewed
before the bride ; and the butler bore before her the bride-cup,
a great silver embossed bowl, one of the family relics from the
days of the hard drinkers. This was filled with rich wine, and
decorated with a branch of rosemary, tied with gay ribands,
according to ancient custom.

" Happy is the bride that the sun shines on,1' says the old
proverb; and it was as sunny and auspicious a morning as
heart could wish. The bride looked uncommonly beautiful;
but, in fact, what woman does not look interesting on her
wedding-day? I know no sight more charming and touching
than that of a young and timid bride, in her robes of virgin white,
led up trembling to the altar. When I thus behold a lovely
girl, in the tenderness of her years, forsaking the house of her
fathers and the home of her childhood ; and, with the implicit
confiding, and the sweet self-abandonment, which belong to
woman, giving up all the world for the man of her choice :
when I hear her, in the good old language of the ritual, yielding
herself to him " for better for worse, for richer for poorer, in
sickness and in health, to love, honour and obey, till death us do
part," it brings to my mind the beautiful and affecting self-
devotion of Ruth: "Whither thou goest I will go, and where
thou lodgest I will lodge ; thy people shall be my people, and
thy God my God."

The fair Julia was supported on the trying occasion by Lady
Lillycraft, whose heart was overflowing with its wonted syn>
pathy in all matters of love and matrimony. As the bride
approached the altar, her face would be one moment covered

312 BRACEBE1DOE HALL.

•with blushes, and the next deadly pale ; and she seemed almost
ready to shrink from sight among her female companions.

I do not know what it is that makes every one serious, and,
as it were, awe-struck, at a marriage ceremony — which is gen-
erally considered as an occasion of festivity and rejoicing. As
the ceremony was performing, I observed many a rosy face
among the country girls turn pale, and I did not see a smile
throughout the church. The young ladies from the Hall were
almost as much frightened as if it had been their own case,
and stole many a look of sympathy at their trembling com-
panion. A tear stood in the eye of the sensitive Lady Lolly-
craft ; and as to Phcebe Wilkins, who was present, she abso-
lutely wept and sobbed aloud ; but it is hard to tell, half the
time, what these fond foolish creatures are crying about.

The captain, too, though naturally gay and unconcerned,
was much agitated on the occasion; and, in attempting to put
the ring upon the bride's finger, dropped it on the floor;
which Lady Lilly craft has since assured me is a very lucky
omen. Even Master Simon had lost his usual vivacity, ;m<l
had assumed a most whimsically solemn face, which he is apt
to do on all occasions of ceremony, fle had much whispering
with the parson and parish-clerk, for he is always a busy per-
sonage in the scene, and he echoed the clerk's amen with a
solemnity and devotion that edified the whole assemblage.

The moment, however, that the ceremony was over, the
transition was magical. The bride-cup was passed round,
according to ancient usage, for the company to drink to a
happy union ; every one's feelings seemed to break forth from
restraint. Master Simon had a world of bachelor pleasantries
to utter; and as to the gallant general, he bowed and cooed
about the dulcet Lady Lillycraft, like a mighty cock-pigeon
about his dame.

| The villagers gathered in the church-yard, to cheer the happy
couple as they left the church ; and the musical tailor had mar-
shalled his band, and set up a hideous discord, as the blushing
and smiling bride passed through a lane of honest peasantry to
her carriage. The children shouted, and threw up their hats ;
the bells rung a merry peal, that set all the crows and rooks
flying and cawing about the air, and threatened to bring down
the battlements of the old tower ; and there was a continual
popping off of rusty fire-locks from every part of the neigh-
bourhood.

The prodigal son distinguished himself on the occasion, hav-

THE WEDDING. 313

ing hoisted a flag on the top of the school-house, and kept the
village in a hubbub from sunrise, with the sound of drum and
fife and pandean pipe ; in which species of music several of his
scholars are making wonderful proficiency. In his great zeal,
however, he had nearly done mischief ; for on returning from
church, the horses of the bride's carriage took fright from the
discharge of a row of old gun-barrels, which he had mounted
as a park of artillery in front of the school-house, to give the
captain a military salute as he passed.

The day passed off with great rustic rejoicing. Tables were
spread under the trees in the park, where all the peasantry of
the neighbourhood were regaled with roast-beef and plum-
pudding and oceans of ale. Ready-Money Jack presided at
one of the tables, and became so full of good cheer, as to un-
bend from his usual gravity, to sing a song out of all tune, and
give two or three shouts of laughter, that almost electrified his
neighbours, like so many peals of thunder. The schoolmaster
and the apothecary vied with each other in making speeches
over their liquor ; and there were occasional glees and musical
performances by the village band, that must have frightened
every faun and dryad from the park. Even old Christy, who
had got on a new dress from top to toe, and shone in all the
splendour of bright leather breeches and an enormous wedding
favour in his cap, forgot his usual crustiness, became inspired
by wine and wassel, and absolutely danced a hornpipe on one
of the tables, with all the grace and agility of a manikin hung
upon wires.

Equal gayety reigned within doors, where a large party of
friends were entertained. Every one laughed at his own
pleasantry, without attending to that of his neighbours.
Loads of bride-cake were distributed. The young ladies were
all busy in passing morsels of it through the wedding-ring to
dream on, and I myself assisted a few little boarding-school
girls in putting up a quantity for their companions, which I
have no doubt will set all the little heads in the school gadding,
for a week at least.

After dinner, all the company, great and small, gentle and
simple, abandoned themselves to the dance: not the modern
quadrille, with its graceful gravity, but the merry, social, old
country-dance ; the true dance, as the Squire says, for a wed-
ding occasion, as it sets all the world jigging in couples, hand
in ^and, and makes every eye and every heart dance merrily
to the music. According to frank old usage, the gentlefolks of

314 BHAVEBRIDOE HALL.

the Hall mingled for a time in the dance of the peasantry, who
had a great tent erected for a ball-room ; and I think I never
saw Master Simon more in his element, than when figuring
about among his rustic admirers, as master of the ceremonies ;
and, with a mingled air of protection and gallantry, leading
out the quondam Queen of May, all blushing at the signal
honour conferred upon her.

In the evening the whole village was illuminated, excepting
the house of the radical, who has not shown his face during
the rejoicings. There was a display of fire-works at the
school-house, got up by the prodigal son, which had well-nigh
set fire to the building. The Squire is so much pleased with
the extraordinary services of this last mentioned worthy, that
he talks of enrolling him in his list of valuable retainers, and
promoting him to some important post on the estate; per-
adventure to be falconer, if the hawks can ever be brought
into proper training.

There is a well-known old proverb, that says "one wedding
makes many," — or something to the same purpose; and I
should not be surprised if it ho) Is good in the present instance.
I have seen several flirtations among the young people, that
have been brought together on this occasion ; and a great deal
of strolling about in pairs, among the retired walks and blos-
soming shrubberies of the old garden : and if groves were really
given to whispering, as poets would fain make us believe,
Heaven knows what love tales the grave-looking old trees
about this venerable country -seat might blab to the world.

The general, too, has waxed very zealous in his devotions
within the last few days, as the time of her ladyship's depar-
ture approaches. I observed him casting many a tender look
at her during the wedding dinner, while the courses were
changing; though he was always liable to lx? interrupted in
his adoration by the appearance of any new delicacy. The
general, hi fact, has arrived at that time of life when the heart
and the stomach maintain a kind of balance of power, and
when a man is apt to be perplexed in his affections between a
fine woman and a truffled turkey. Her ladyship was certainly
rivalled, through the whole of the first course, by a dish of
stewed carp ; and there was one glance, which was evidently
intended to be a point-blank shot at her heart, and could
scarcely have failed to effect a practicable breach, had it not
unluckily been directed away to a tempting breast of lamb, in
which it immediately produced a formidable incision.

THE WEDDING. 316

Thus did this faithless general go on, coquetting during the
whole dinner, and committing an infidelity with every new
dish ; until, in the end, he was so overpowered by the attentions
he had paid to fish, flesh, and fowl ; to pastry, jelly, cream, and
blanc-mange, that he seemed to sink within himself : his eyes
swam beneath their lids, and their fire was so much slackened,
that he could no longer discharge a single glance that would
reach across the table. Upon the whole, I f ear the general ate i
himself into as much disgrace, at this memorable dinner, as I
have seen him sleep himself into on a former occasion.

I am told, moreover, that young Jack Tibbets was so touched
by the wedding ceremony, at which he was present, and so
captivated by the sensibility of poor Phoebe Wilkins, who cer-
tainly looked all the better for her tears, that he had a recon-
ciliation with her that very day, after dinner, in one of the
groves of the park, and danced with her hi the evening ; to the
complete confusion of all Dame Tibbets' domestic politics. I met
them walking together in the park, shortly after the reconcili-
ation must have taken place. Young Jack carried himself
gayly and manfully ; but Phoebe hung her head, blushing, as I
approached. However, just as she passed me, and dropped a
curtsy, I caught a shy gleam of her eye from under her bon-
net ; but it was immediately cast down again. I saw enough
in that single gleam, and in the involuntary smile that dimpled
about her rosy lips, to feel satisfied that the little gipsy's heart
was happy again.

What is more, Lady Lillycraft, with her usual benevolence
and zeal in all matters of this tender nature, on hearing of the
reconciliation of the lovers, undertook the critical task of
breaking the matter to Ready-Money Jack. She thought there
was no time like the present, and attacked the sturdy old yeo-
man that very evening in the park, while his heart was yet
lifted up with the Squire's good cheer. Jack was a little sur-
prised at being drawn aside by her ladyship, but was not to be
flurried by such an honour: he was still more surprised by
the nature of her communication, and by this first intelligence
of an aff air which had been passing under his eye. He listened,
however, with his usual gravity, as her ladyship represented
the advantages of the match, the good qualities of the girl, and
the distress which she had lately suffered: at length his eye
began to kindle, and his hand to play with the head of his
cudgel. Lady Lillycraft saw that something in the narrative
had gone wrong, and hastened to mollif y his rising ire by reiter-

816 BRACEBRIDGE HALL.

ating the soft-hearted Phoebe's merit and fidelity, and he*
great unhappiness; when old Ready-Money suddenly inter-
rupted her by exclaiming, that if Jack did not marry the
wench, he'd break every bone in his body ! The match, there-
fore, is considered a settled thing: Dame Tibbetsand the house-
keeper have made friends, and drank tea together ; and Phoebe
has again recovered her good looks and good spirits, and is
carolling from morning till night like a lark.

But the most whimsical caprice of Cupid is one that I should
be almost afraid to mention, did I not know that I was writing
for readers well experienced in the waywardness of this most
mischievous deity. The morning after the wedding, therefore,
while Lady Lillycraft was, making preparations for her depar-
ture, an audience was requested by her immaculate hand-maid,
Mrs. Hannah, who, with much primming of the mouth, and
many maidenly hesitations, requested leave to stay behind, and
that Lady Lillycraft would supply her place with some other
servant. Her ladyship was astonished: "What! Hannah
going to quit her, that had li ved with her so long !"

"Why, one could not help it; one must settle in life some
time or other."

The good lady was still lost in amazement ; at length, the
secret was gasped from the dry lips of the maiden gentlewoman :
" She had been some tune thinking of changing her condi-
tion, and at length had given her word, last evening, to Mr.
Christy, the huntsman.

How, or when, or where this singular courtship had been
carried on, I have not been able to learn ; nor how she has been
able, with the vinegar of her disposition, to soften the stony
heart of old Nimrod : so, however, it is, and it has astonished
every one. With all her ladyship's love of match-making, this
last fume of Hymen's torch has been too much for her. She
has endeavoured to reason with Mrs. Hamuih, but all in vain ;
her mind was made up, and she grew tart on the least contra-
diction. Lady Lillycraft applied to the Squire for his interfer-
ence. "She did not know what she should do without Mrs.
Hannah, she had been used to have her about her so long a
time."

The Squire, on the contrary, rejoiced in the match, as reliev-
ing the good lady from a kind of toilet-tyrant, under whose
sway she had suffered for years. Instead of thwarting the
affair, therefore, he has given it his full countenance ; and
declares that he will set up the young couple in one of the best

THE WEDDING. 317

cottages on his estate. The approbation of the Squire has been
followed by that of the whole household ; they all declare, that
if ever matches are really made in heaven, this must have been ;
for that old Christy and Mrs. Hannah were as evidently formed
to be linked together, as ever were pepper-box and vinegar-
cruet.

As soon as this matter was arranged, Lady Lillycraft took
her leave of the family at the Hall ; taking with her the captain
and liis blushing bride, who are to pass the honeymoon with
her. Master Simon accompanied them on horseback, and
indeed means to ride on ahead to make preparations. The gen-
eral, who was fishing in vain for an invitation to her seat,
handed her ladyship into the carriage with a heavy sigh ; upon
which his bosom friend, Master Simon, who was just mounting
his horse, gave me a knowing wink, made an abominably wry
face, and. leaning from his saddle, whispered loudly in my ear,
" It won't do !" Then, putting spurs to his horse, away he can-
tered off. The general stood for some time waving his hat
after the carriage as it rolled down the avenue, until he was
seized with a fit of sneezing, from exposing his head to the cool
breeze. I observed that he returned rather thoughtfully to the
house ; whistling softly to himself, with his hands behind his
back, and an exceedingly dubious air.

The company have now almost all taken their departure ; I
have determined to do the same to-morrow morning; and I
hope my reader may not think that I have already lingered too
long at the Hall. I have been tempted to do so, however,
because I thought I had lit upon one of the retired places where
there are yet some traces to be met with of old English character.
A little while hence, and all these will probably have passed
away. Ready-Money Jack will sleep with his fathers : the good
Squire, and all his peculiarities, will be buried in the neighbour-
ing church. The old Hall will be modernized into a fashionable
country-seat, or, peradventure, a manufactory. The park will
be cut up into petty farms and kitchen-gardens. A daily coach
will run through the village; it will become, like all other
commonplace villages, thronged with coachmen, post-boys,
tipplers, and politicians : and Christmas, May-day, and all the
other hearty merry-makings of the " good old times," will be
forgotten

318 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

THE AUTHOR'S FAREWELL.

And »o without more circumstance at all,

I bold it fit that we shake hands and part.— Hamlet.

HAVING taken leave of the Hall and its inmates, and brought
the history of my visit to something like a close, there seems
to remain nothing further than to make my bow, and exit. It
is my foible, however, to get on such companionable terms
with my reader in the course of a work, that it really costs me
some pain to part with him ; and I am apt to keep him by the
hand, and have a few farewell words at the end of my last
volume.

When I cast an eye back upon the work I am just conclud-
ing, I cannot but be sensible how full it must 6e of errors and
imperfections : indeed, how should it be otherwise, writing as I
do about subjects and scenes with which, as a stranger, I um
but partially acquainted? Many will doubtless find cause to
smile at very obvious blunders which I may have made ; and
many may, perhaps, be offended at what they may conceive
prejudiced representations. Some will think I might have said
much more on such subjects as may suit their peculiar tastes;
whilst others will think I had done wiser to have left those sub-
jects entirely alone.

It will probably be said, too, by some, that I view England
with a partial eye. Perhaps I do ; for I can never forget that
it is my "father land." And yet, the circumstances under
which I have viewed it have by no means been such as were
calculated to produce favourable impressions. For the greater
part of the time that I have resided in it, I have li ved almost
unknowing and unknown ; seeking no favours, and receiving
none: " a stranger and a sojourner in the land," and subject
to all the chills and neglects that are the common lot of the
stranger.

When I consider these circumstances, and recollect how often
I have taken up my pen, with a mind ill at ease, and spirits
much dejected and cast down, I cannot but think I was not
likely to err on the favourable side of the picture. The opin-
ions I have given of English character have been the result of
much quiet, dispassionate, and varied observation. It is a
character not to be hastily studied, for it always puts on a re-
pulsive and ungracious aspect to a stranger. Let those, then,

TEE AUTHORS FAEEWELL. 319

who condemn my representations as too favourable, observe
this people as closely and deliberately as I have done, and they
will, probably, change their opinion. Of one thing, at any
rate, I am certain, that I have spoken honestly and sincerely,
from the convictions of my mind, and the dictates of my heart.
When I first published my former writings, it was with no
hope of gaining favour in English eyes, for I little thought they
were to become current out of my own country: and. had I
merely sought popularity among my own countrymen, I should
have taken a more direct and obvious way, by gratifying
rather than rebuking the angry f eelings that were then preva-
lent against England.

And here let me acknowledge my warm, my thankful feel-
ings, at the effect produced by one of my trivial lucubrations.
I allude to the essay in the Sketch-Book, on the subject of the
literary feuds between England and America. I cannot ex-
press the heartfelt delight I have experienced, at the unex-
pected sympathy and approbation with which those remarks
have been received on both sides of the Atlantic. I speak this
not from any paltry f eelings of gratified vanity ; for I attribute
the effect to no merit of my pen. The paper in question was
brief and casual, and the ideas it conveyed were simple and
obvious. "It was the cause: it was the cause" alone. There
was a predisposition on the part of my readers to be favourably
affected. My countrymen responded in heart to the filial feel-
ings I had avowed in their name towards the parent country :
and there was a generous sympathy in every English bosom
towards a solitary individual, lifting up his voice in a strange
land, to vindicate the injured character of his nation. There
are some causes so sacred as to carry with them an irresistible
appeal to every virtuous bosom ; and he needs but little power
of eloquence, who defends the honour of his wife, his mother,
or his country.

I hail, therefore, the success of that brief paper, as showing
how much good may be done by a kind word, however feeble,
when spoken in season — as showing how much dormant good-
feeling actually exists in each country, towards the other,
which only wants the slightest spark to kindle it into a genial
flame — as showing, in fact, what I have all along believed and
asserted, that the two nations would grow together in esteem
and amity, if meddling and malignant spirits would but throw
by their mischievous pens, and leave kindred hearts to the
kindly impulses of nature.

320 BRACEBRIDOE HALL.

I once more assert, and I assert it with increased conviction
of its truth, that there exists, among the great majority of my
countrymen, a favourable feeling toward England. I repeat
this assertion, because I think it a truth that cannot too often
be reiterated, and because it has met with some contradiction.
Among all the liberal and enlightened minds of my country-
men, among all those which eventually give a tone to national
opinion, there exists a cordial desire to be on terms of courtesy
and friendship. But at the same time, there exists in those
very minds a distrust of reciprocal good- will on the part of
England. They have been rendered morbidly sensitive by the
attacks made upon their country by the English press ; and
their occasional irritability on this subject has been misinter-
preted into a settled and unnatural hostility.

For my part, I consider this jealous sensibility as belonging
to generous natures. I should look upon my countrymen as
fallen indeed from that independence of spirit which is their
birth-gift ; as fallen indeed from that pride of character which
they inherit from the proud nation from which they sprung,
could they tamely sit down under the infliction of contumely
and insult. Indeed, the very impatience which they show as
to the misrepresentations of the press, proves their respect for
English opinion, and their desire for English amity ; for there
is never jealousy where there is not strong regard.

It is easy to say, that these attacks are all the effusions of
worthless scribblers, and treated with silent contempt by the
nation ; but, alas ! the slanders of the scribbler travel abroad,
and the silent contempt of the nation is only known at home.
With England, then, it remains, as I have formerly asserted,
to promote a mutual spirit of conciliation ; she has but to hold
the language of friendship and respect, and she is secure of the
good-will of every American bosom. 1

In expressing these sentiments, I would utter nothing that
should commit the proper spirit of my countrymen. We seek
no boon at England's hands: we ask nothing as a favour.
Her friendship is not necessary, nor would her hostility be
dangerous to our well-being. We ask nothing from abroad
that we cannot reciprocate. But with respect to England, we
have a warm feeling of the heart, the glow of consanguinity
that still lingers in our blood. Interest apart— past differences
forgotten — we extend the hand of old relationship. We merely
ask, do not estrange us from you ; do not destroy the ancient
tie of blood ; do not let scoffers and slanderers drive a kindred

THE AUTHORS FAREWELL. 321

ation from your side ; we would fain be friends ; do not corn-
el us to be enemies.

There needs no better rallying-ground for international
mity, than that furnished by an eminent English writer:
' There is," say she, "a sacred bond between us of blood and of
anguage, which no circumstances can break. Our literature
nust always be theirs; and though their laws are no longer
he same as ours, we have the same Bible, and we address our
lommon Father in the same prayer. Nations are too ready to
idmit that they have natural enemies; why should they be
ess willing to believe that they have natural friends?"*

To the magnanimous spirits of both countries must we trust
;o carry such a natural alliance of affection into full effect. To
Dens more powerful than mine, I leave the noble task of pro-
noting the cause of national amity. To the intelligent and en-
lightened of my own country, I address my parting voice,
sntreating them to show themselves superior to the petty
attacks of the ignorant and the worthless, and still to look with
dispassionate and philosophic eye to the moral character of
England, as the intellectual source of our rising greatness;
while I appeal to every generous-minded Englishman from the
slanders which disgrace the press, insult the understanding,
and belie the magnanimity of his country : and I invite him to
look to America, as to a kindred nation, worthy of its origin;
giving, in the healthy vigour of its growth, the best of com-
ments on its parent stock; and reflecting, hi the dawning
brightness of its fame, the moral effulgence of British glory.

I am sure that such an appeal will not be made in vain. In-
deed, I have noticed, for some time past, an essential change in
English sentiment with regard to America. In parliament,
that fountain-head of public opinion, there seems to be an
emulation, on both sides of the house, in holding the language
of courtesy and friendship. The same spirit is daily becoming
more and more prevalent hi good society. There is a growing
curiosity concerning my country; a craving desire for correct
information, that cannot fail to lead to a favourable under-
standing. The scoffer, I trust, has had his day; the time of
the slanderer is gone by; the ribald jokes, the stale common-
places, which have so long passed current when America was

* From an article (said to be by Robert Southey, Esq.) published in the Quarterly
Review. It is to be lamented that that publication should so often forget th« gen-
erous text here given I

322 BRACEBRIDQE HALL.

the theme, are now banished to the ignorant and the vulgar,
or only perpetuated by the hireling scribblers and traditional
jesters of the press. The intelligent and high-minded now
pride themselves upon making America a study.

But however my feelings may be understood or reciprocated
on either side of the Atlantic, I utter them without reserve, for
I have ever found that to speak frankly is to speak safely. I
am not so sanguine as to believe that the two nations are ovn-
to be bound together by any romantic ties of feeling; but I
believe that much may be done towards keeping alive cor-
dial sentiments, were every well-disposed mind occasionally to
throw in a simple word of kindness. If I have, indeed, pro-
duced any such effect by my writings, it will be a soothing re-
flection to me, that for once, in the course of a rather negligent
lif e, I have been useful ; that for once, by the casual exercise
of a pen which has been in general but too unprofitably em-
ployed, I have awakened a cord of sympathy between the land
of my fathers and the dear land that gave me birth.

In the spirit of these sentiments, I now take my farewell of
the paternal soil. With anxious eye do I behold the clouds of
doubt and difficulty that are lowering over it, and earnestly do
I hope that they may all clear up into serene and settled sun-
shine. In bidding this last adieu, my heart is filled with fond,
yet melancholy emotions; and still I linger, and still, like a
child leaving the venerable abodes of his forefathers, I turn to
breathe forth a filial benediction: Peace be within thy walls,
O England! and plenteousness within thy palaces; for my
brethren and my companions' sake I will now say, Peace bs
within thee I

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